Djo’s Fool Recommends

It'll usually start with a soft trail of kisses across your shoulders and warm palms smoothing over your belly while you busy yourself with some mundane task, folding clothes or making breakfast on your shared days off. Then, this little whine escapes him -- just slips right past his lips like he can't help it -- so you turn and tangle your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to kiss him slow, and deep.

His posture is even different. Gator can easily tower over you, crowd your space, cage you in, but when he's like this he bends at the knees to put you in the driver's seat.

"You need me?"

He says nothing, just nods as he continues to plant his lips down the column of your throat and rope his arms around you, lifting you with ease without taking his mouth off of you. His eyes are softly closed, long, dark lashes resting easy on his cheek.

He settles you both down on the couch and you card your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp as you grind over his growing bulge beneath you. You lean into his ear and whisper praises that you're happy to dish out, but usually he's too stubborn to accept.

"You make me so happy, Gator." A light nip to his earlobe. "You make me feel so safe and strong." A lick along his sharp jawline. "And beautiful, god you make me feel so beautiful." A deep, slow circle over his rigid cock that has you both shuddering. "I just love you so much."

When you place a soft kiss on his cheek, over the two little prominent moles that you find so endearing, you taste salt. You sit back and see two streaks of tears that he quickly tries to sniffle and swipe away. You grab his wrist with more strength than he's used to from you, and lean back in to kiss the rest of the hot, stinging tears away.

"S'okay, baby. I've got you. Let me tell you more."

So you ride his lap and tell him all the good things you know about Gator Tillman, slipping his cock inside of you and moaning his name proudly, whimpering how good he makes you feel, licking away the tears as they spill down his cheeks.

He watches you calmly and quietly, drinking in your flushed skin, how tight you're squeezing him, that you somehow manage to make both of you cum at the same exact time, and mostly how beautiful your words are...

...maybe he'll actually starting to believe some of them.

You get to see him in all his glory with the warm dew of the sun shining on him through his thin window blinds, his hair messy and falling in front of his face, wearing nothing but his boxers, his warm freckled body laid right next to you.

A sleepy handsome mess.

“I gotta be on time to work, can’t come in late again. My boys at the station still won’t let me live down the day I came in rushing with my badge backwards.”

“Not my fault you were rushing.”

“I was rushin’ because someone wanted me to stay in bed for an extra five minutes.” He said in a hushed tone, craning his neck to get close to your face, acting like you were a petulant child. You were acting a bit like one in all honesty.

You let out a "hmph" resting your chin on his chest but keeping your eyes shut. Obviously you couldn’t see it, but you could hear the shit-eating grin he had on.

“Y’know by the time I’m halfway through my shift you’ll finally be gettin’ out of bed.” He teased, pinching your thigh. You squeaked, jolting a few inches back from him.

You were defeated, you let him slip out of your arms. As he removed himself you turned over on your other side so your back faced towards him, grumpily pulling the sheets over you.

An amused huff left him, you heard it. You snuck a few glances at him as he got ready for work, slicking his hair back, slipping on his vest and strapping the gun holster to his thigh and putting on that leather jacket he loved.

He knew you were staring.

His boots thudded against the floor as he walked to your side of the bed, having to crouch down to get to your eye level.

You stared at him, pout still evident on your face. Purposely.

“C’mon, don’t be like that.” He sighed, laying his elbows on his legs and letting his hands hang between his lap. You shuffled down in bed so you were able to pull the sheets over your shoulders completely.

“You still gonna be poutin’ by the time I get back?” He reached one hand out, pushing some tangled hair out of your face.

“‘M not pouting.” You mumbled, shuffling further. The sheets were covering up to your chin.

“Uh huh.” He said with that stupid smug look he’d get when he knew he was right. He let out a deep breath as he stood up, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Maybe on the way back I’ll stop by that little cafe you like. Get a hot chocolate or somethin’.” He dropped his head to his shoulder, pretending he was only thinking out loud. Like he wasn’t trying to swap out your grumpiness with a treat.

You would not give into temptation. You would stay grumpy all morning.

“With whipped cream. Oooh, maybe even get some cinnamon sprinkled on top.” His eyes moved back to you, narrowing.

You bit your cheek, twisting your lips. Defeat has never sounded so delicious.

“Make sure it’s still warm by the time you get back.” You told him blankly, closing your eyes.

Gator kissed your forehead along with his response.

“Promise.”

But he will not be taking the risk of shrugging off the possibility with you.

Gators mind is going to all the worst possibilities, he’s seen all the types of evil fuckers in this area. He can’t let you be wrapped up in that.

He turns into your neighborhood, his head is fucking with him now. His mind jumps to the darkest outcomes, you laying on the floor inside your house, unconscious, hurt, or worse. You could be in a pool of your own blood on the floor right now and he can’t do anything about it. 

He’s trying his best to wipe that image of that from his mind, convince himself that it’s a false alarm. But he’s never been much of a wishful thinker.

He just got you. He can’t lose you now.

He has his gun taken out of the holster by the time he gets to your front porch. Your front door is closed but your screen door is open.

He gives four harsh knocks against the wood, making himself known with the classic “Starks County Sheriff Department!” announcement. Usually it gets him a power trip from saying it, but right now his heart is pounding in his ears.

After no response, he turns the knob and the door is already unlocked. 

His stomach feels like an endless pit.

He throws the door open and points his gun all around the living room. He’s scanning each and every corner of the room while his hands sweat around the metal, suddenly it feels like he’s holding a gun for the first time once he notices the amount of weight pressed into his palms.

Clenched fists, clenched jaw, chest breathing heavy, eyes wide, neck straining, every muscle in his body is tense. There’s not one single ounce of calm within him.

“Baby? It’s Gator,” He calls out, trying to hide the shakes in his voice.

“I’m in the bathroom!” You call out from down the hall. There’s a small amount of relief when he hears your voice, but he’s not completely relaxed yet.

His mind was moving a mile a minute, you still could be injured, you still could be tied up in the tub, you could be fucking held with a knife to your throat behind the door. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, his gun pointed slightly lower to the floor.

There’s so many shitty possibilities. There’s so many horrible scenes or states you could be in at this moment.

Instead, you’re hunched up onto the small counter of your bathroom. Not a single scratch or bruise on you. You just look afraid.

“You said there was an intruder?” His grip is still tight on the gun, his eyes wide.

You pointed to the corner next to the tub where a glass sat upside down on its rim, with a good sized wolf spider trapped inside it.

He lets out a breath, jaw ajar in disbelief. That is what made you cause him to nearly break down the door for?

He stares at it as he puts his gun back into his holster, then his eyes move to you. You’re still sitting atop the counter, knees up to your chest and arms wrapped around them.

“You told me there was an intruder, you didn’t tell me it was a spider.” He huffs, rubbing his hand down his face.

“I put a spider emoji next to it.” You say meekly, puppy dog eyeing him.

Well, you did, but Gators brain didn’t process that. He saw the words emergency and intruder and he booked it.

Gator sighs as he hunches over, he raises his boot up and gets ready to lift up the glass, prepared to squash the unwelcomed visitor.

“No! Don’t kill him!” You cry out before he can even put his hands on the cup.

“What else do ya want me to do with it?”

“Throw him outside! I don’t know! Just don’t hurt him!” You whine.

Gator sighs, loudly. “Go get me a piece of paper or somethin’.” He helps you off the sink counter even though you could easily get down yourself, you patter off to find something, you’re in as much of a rush he was when he thought there was a person in your house.

Gator is already throwing his baseball cap onto the counter and running a hand through his hair, he’s sweat through the gel in his hair because of the hot weather and the amount of sheer fucking panic you just put him through.

You grab this month's issue of a cooking magazine from a brand that keeps mailing you them, even though you unsubscribed from them months ago.

Gator slips the thin magazine underneath the glass carefully, while you mentally apologize to Martha Stewart for using her article to trap the spider.

Once he gets the paper fully under, he stands back up with the makeshift cage in his hands and turns around and walks out the bathroom. You smush yourself up against the wall as if he’s dangling a venomous snake in your face.

You trail behind him as he makes his way to the front door, you’re trying to watch over his shoulder to make sure he’s really got that thing trapped in there.

“Probably jus’ got in through that little hole in the screen.” Gator mutters, he uses the toe of his boot to point to the small tear at the bottom of the screen door. You make a note to get that fixed as soon as possible.

He goes down the steps and into the middle of the grass, he’s getting ready to crouch over and let it fling into the grass when you call out.

“Don’t let it out so close to here!” You say from the porch. Gator sighs and takes a few steps to the side. He looks at you for approval.You make a waving gesture, telling him to go off a little farther.

He grumbles out a breath, walks farther over the lawn until he’s more on your neighbors lawn rather than your own.

After a few more steps for good measure, he looks back to you, his tongue pokes the side of his mouth. God, he’s so, so frustrated, but he loves you. 

And he’s not the biggest fan of spiders either. He just wished you’d let him squash it rather than make it a rescue mission for the creepy crawler. You give him a nod and thumbs up.

It is pretty fucking creepy looking up close. He stretches his arms out and away from him, lifts the glass, and lets it scramble off the folder, he kind of flings it off the paper. He jumps back a little bit when it goes crawling through the grass, away from your house.

When he walks back up to the porch with two limp arms at his side, you’re standing there with your hands clasped together. That sad little worried look on your face. Gator moves past you, reaches far enough inside to drop the cup and folder on the wooden shelf by the door.

And when he turns back to you, you’re looking up at him with your painfully adorable puppy dog eyes. They always make him fold. You always make him fold.

You have this look on your face, like you’re prepared to be scolded, yelled at.

And as much as he wanted earlier to tell you to never scare him like that again and never make him freak out over some itty bitty spider. He wouldn’t. He’d be a repeat of his father. He refused to do that. 

Especially to you.

“Next time tell me directly that it’s a fuckin bug, don’t send a little emoji.” He huffs out, wrapping his arm around the back of your neck to pull you into a rough hug. He smushes a kiss into the side of your head.

They don’t get to see the parts of him that you do.

The softer, sweeter parts of him.

You get the Gator that doesn’t have up his mean and rough mask. You get to hear his voice soft, his whispers, his flustered laughs.

Gator, who will linger, every time, before he leaves the bedroom for an early shift.

When it’s misty and in between moondown and sunrise, right in the middle, right before the sun peaks out from the ground. He’ll unravel himself from you and slip out of bed as quietly and as carefully as he can. 

He’ll adjust the covers back so they’re tucked nicely over you. He’ll run his thumb over your cheekbone, pressing a kiss to your temple and whispering a sweet parting to you.

And when you whimper and stir in your sleep, he has to stop himself from calling in so he can spend a few more minutes in bed with you.

Gator whose touch is soft. He’s heavy handed, the skin on his palms are rough and usually calloused, but he’s careful with you. 

Because for the first time in a long time, he feels like he can finally have something without ruining it. He can finally have touch that isn't violent. 

Again, he never did any of that romantic sappy shit until you showed up.

The town doesn’t know how you did that. But they’ve seen bits and parts of his romantic acts towards you.

The cashiers will gossip about all the times he’s stopped by the store to pick up a bouquet of flowers, occasionally a little teddy bear, because girls like those, right?

Or how he’ll call you “my girl” to you and anyone else who gets him talking about you.

Or how he’ll drive you to the farmers market and walk around with you, looking as if it’s a punishment being there, but you mentioned the event happening, said it looked “interesting”--which was your code word for “I’d really like to go to this.”--and Gator wants to make you happy, he likes seeing you happy.

So, he stops with you at every vendor's booth, and anything you wanna buy, is bought with money out of his pocket.

He’ll do anything for you if you just ask.

When he’s off at work, he’ll send you sweet little texts. Photos of deer he sees wandering in the tree line, a text saying:

🐊: made me think of u

Or photos of little stuffed animals or treats from truck stops, asking if you want it. You’d always see that stupid green vape in his hand, the one he’d blow the fruity smoke from away from your face.

Girls will call him hot, tell him how sexy he looks in his vest, ask if their hands can replace the gun strap around his thigh, tell him how handsome he is. And he is.

But the first time you called him cute, he nearly choked on his soda and attempted to hide the tinge of pink that warmed on his cheeks behind his glass.

He liked it. 

Fuck.

He really liked it.

Then the other sheriffs tease him after you’ve dropped off lunch for him. But they have no complaints when you bring fresh baked goods for the entire department, still warm compared to the chilly weather outside.

You bring him sandwiches from the deli or ones you’ve made yourself, leftovers from your dinner the previous night. Tupperware of your mothers pasta, chicken and rice, soup in a thermos. 

Leaving with a kiss on the cheek and a reminder that he “needs to eat something other than trail mix from the vending machine.”

And occasionally you’ll leave a little sticky note with it, little hearts and smiley faces written in pen. 

God, it’s so fucking cheesy, but he loves it. He loves it. He keeps them stacked up in his glovebox, he will not tell you that he does that.

His coworkers will jokingly warn you about him.

“A girl like you shouldn’t be hanging around a boy like Gator.”

“He’s gonna clip your angel wings off.”

“He’s nothing but trouble, he’ll bring you down with him.”

And your father was wary about Gator the first time he stopped by, still is. Your mother usually has a tight smile on her face when you mention him, not very pleasant.

The warnings bothered you at first, your fathers grimace and mothers staring, it all wrapped around your head and pulled like a scratchy piece of twine.

But it doesn’t matter now. They go in one ear and out the other. You can’t seem to care about those comments anymore.

Especially when he’ll gaze at you during any meal of the day. When you ask him what he’s looking at or if there’s anything on your face. He’ll always say the same thing:

“Just lookin’ at ya.”

You teach him silly things. “Girly bullshit” that he doesn’t need to do. Like oiling his hair and taking proper care of it rather than just slicking it back every morning and going on with his day. Clipping his nails instead of biting at them. Using shampoo and conditioner instead of the 2-in-1 bullshit.

He fucking hates the oil. He doesn’t give a shit if castor or rosemary or whatever oil you’re telling him to use makes his hair grow. But on the very very rare occasion that he does it, he only does it if it’s your hands rubbing it into his scalp.

Then you get to see what he looks like fresh out the shower, freckled skin all on display. His hair wet with stringy strands over his eyes. 

Again in the mornings you’ll trace all the moles scattered across his back and giggle when he jerks because he does get ticklish. Which he will never admit. He just murmurs a grumbled “quit that.” before shoving his head back into his pillow.

But your touch is the softest thing he’s ever felt. So he’d choose to have those ticklish touches rather than nothing at all.

He’d have you rather than anything at all.

You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him. 

Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.

And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.

So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him. 

You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.

He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.

“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.

“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”

“What?” You mumbled.

“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.

Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.

You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open. 

“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.

Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.

He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house. 

Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.

If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.

He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.

He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.

But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.

Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.

He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement. 

Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.

The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting. 

The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.

You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?

He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.

You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.

Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.

He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.

You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.

Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.

Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.

“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.

“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.

You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.

“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.

“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.

“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.

God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.

You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.

You’ll torture him a bit more.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically. 

“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.

“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.

“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.

Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.

“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.

He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.

Gator does his best to make up for it.

“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.

And it’s working. God, you hate him.

He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down. 

Waiting for it. 

It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.

He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.

It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.

Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder. 

You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.

Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.

Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous. 

You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale. 

You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.

The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.

Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.

Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.

“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.

“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.

He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.

You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.

“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.

“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.

But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.

“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.

The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.

And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.

“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.

“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.

“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.

Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.

“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.

Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.

Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.

“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”

A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.

“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist. 

He’s really trying to make it up to you.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.

He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.

“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.

Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.

When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.

“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.

He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays. 

“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle. 

You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied. 

“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.” 

“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.

You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.

“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.

The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.

“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.

You absolutely are.

“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head. 

Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.

“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.

“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.

Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.

“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.

“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.

Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.

“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.

He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.

Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.

You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.

“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill. 

It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.

“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.

“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off. 

And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.

Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.

He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.

His phone vibrates on the dash. 

It’s a text from you.

goodnight 💕

He’s so amused by you.

“Ugh! She just doesn’t stop!” Eddie groaned as he leaned his head back over the couch, his hands covering his eyes in frustration.

“I mean don’t get me wrong i kind of liked it at first, and it’s not like she’s not attractive or anything, but she’s just so. Fucking. Annoying.”

You giggled as you sat back on the other side of the living room sofa, the movie you two planned on watching was playing on in the background as Eddie moved the conversation to telling you about his newest problem.

Her name was Kimberly.

“Why don’t you just tell her to leave you alone?”

“I’ve tried! She just keeps coming back, i think she just assumes i’m playing hard to get or something but i don’t understand how she can’t just get the hint.”

It was funny to see how frustrated she made him, and he looked pretty cute when he was this angry, but you could tell how fed up he was with this girl continuing to try and weasel her way into his life.

You’d noticed little things here and there around school, and you had to admit you found her pretty annoying too.

She’d walk right up to your table during lunch, interrupting whatever conversation you and the boys were having to push you to the side and sit herself next to Eddie and ramble on about whatever nonsense she came up with for that day. Of course all while ignoring the dirty looks she got from you and the other Hellfire boys.

She’d try and stay after on Fridays just in case there was a chance that she could sit in on Hellfire, no matter how many times you’d hear her say how the game was ‘stupid’ or ‘childish’ around her friends, but it would be a whole different story if she got to be near Eddie.

Typically you and the guys would make fun of Eddie for having his own little ‘groupie’ follow him around like a lost puppy, but hearing him vent to you about her was something completely different. He didn’t think it was funny or cute when she would interrupt his conversations or try and get in the way of you or the other guys, or when she started walking around with him to his classes during the passing periods, or even when she decided it would be a great idea to act like the two of them had some kind of relationship so any time he talked to you or any other girls she would step right in the way and be all over him. It was creepy, it was weird, and definitely crossed the line when she decided to start showing up at the trailer unannounced.

“Fuck, it’s gotten that bad?”

The whole scenario made you feel bad for him. If it was a guy doing things like that to a girl they’d be called out immediately but of course when it’s the other way around people think it’s just a funny joke.

“Yep.” Eddie sighed and shook his head, “I had to start telling Wayne to answer the door and tell her i’m not home just so she’ll go away but she still comes back! I honestly don’t know what to do (y/n)…”

You could see how her actions were affecting him, and it hurt to see that this girl just couldn’t take the hint and leave your best friend alone after hearing countless times that he doesn’t want anything to do with her. And then you started thinking back on all the times Eddie helped you when guys were giving you the same creepy ‘affection’. He’d see some guy talking you up and making you uncomfortable and he’d immediately rush over with his arm around you, pretending he was your boyfriend and threaten them off if they kept their act up. It was finally time for you to repay that favor.

“You think she’ll show up today?”

“Probably! It’s like clockwork, she’ll show up every other day in the afternoon and just knock and call for me for like 15 minutes! I usually just ignore her.”

“Why don’t you let me take care of it if she shows up.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Both of your attention was turned to the front door of the trailer, hearing a few rapid knocks on the door before a high pitched voice called out,

“Eddie!”

He groaned but tried to stay quiet to not alert her of his presence,

“Speak of the fucking devil.”

“Eddie, open up!” Her squeals we’re like nails on chalkboard, “Your van is out front so i know you’re home!”

“Don’t worry, i’ll take care of her, give me your shirt.”

Eddie looked at you a bit shocked,

“What?”

“Your shirt! Give me your shirt and go wait in your room.”

He rolled his eyes but he quickly pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to you before quickly making his way into his bedroom.

You pulled your own shirt off and replaced it with his, quickly undoing your bra and tossing it onto the couch. You shed your jeans and tossed all your clothes behind the couch so she couldn’t spot them before smudging your makeup and messing up your hair, taking a deep breath as you prepared yourself to open the door to the she-beast named Kimberly.

As you opened the door, her quick knocks ceased and her eyes went wide.

“Can i help you?” You asked her, your eyes darting up and down at her.

“Who are you?” She looked at you up and down as you did to her, dodging your question completely.

“I’m (y/n), i’m Eddie’s…” You paused for a moment, “friend. You are?”

“Kimberly. Where is he?” She stood on her tip goes to try and see over your head into the trailer, and you moved your body to lean against the door frame.

“He’s…” You turned to look down the hall into Eddie’s room, seeing him poke his head out to see if you’d gotten her to leave yet, “a little preoccupied at the moment.” You leaned in a bit closer to her and whispered, “He was feeling a little tired…”

You crossed your arms over your chest and she fully took in your outfit. Panties, Eddie’s shirt, and she could tell you weren’t wearing a bra from the gentle outline of your nipples through the shirt. She crossed her arms over her chest to try and seem a bit more intimidating to you but it didn’t phase you. You knew that deep down she was angry, jealous even of seeing you in such a state, knowing what could’ve possibly been happening moments before you answered the door.

“Can i at least come in and talk to him?”

“I don’t think so, he usually doesn’t like to be bothered right now.”

“How would you know that?” Her tone became angrier and snottier to you, knowing your plan was working perfectly.

“Well, usually he’ll ask me to come over and help him with a little problem he has every now and then.” You giggled to yourself, “Or i guess you could call it a big problem.”

She was growing more and more jealous by the second, having to hear you talk about how easy it was for you to get what she’s been wanting from Eddie for so long.

She huffed and you looked back down the hall, seeing Eddie smiling has his head poked out his doorway. He was hearing your whole conversation and he could tell that it was finally getting through to this girl that he wanted nothing to do with her. And though he loved hearing you finally tell this girl off, he loved watching you do it too.

Seeing you standing there in his oversized shirt and panties, and his eyes widened once he noticed your bra hidden behind the couch. The thought of your bare chest being covered up by his shirt was enough to make him need to adjust himself in his jeans.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about you like this before, i mean everyone thinks about fucking their best friend every now and then right? There’s nothing wrong with it. At least to him there wasn’t anything wrong with wanting it.

He could hear how impatient Kimberly was getting at the door, and he was hoping you were able to finally get her off his case once and for all.

“Well i don’t think he’d mind if i just came in to say hi-“ Kimberly said as she tried to shove her way past you to try and get inside the trailer, but you put your arm up to block her from getting any closer.

“I think he would mind, actually.”

She gave you the dirtiest look she could muster and Eddie figured now would be the perfect time to step in and get her to finally leave the two of you alone.

“(y/n)!” He called out from his bedroom, making you and Kimberly turn your attention to down the hall, “Who’s at the door?”

“No one!” You called back to him, a sly smile on your face directed right at Kimberly.

“Well then hurry up and come back to bed!”

You bit your lip and giggled, trying your best not to burst out laughing. Kimberly stood there and she let out a hurt gasp, almost like Eddie had betrayed whatever trust she thought she had earned from him.

“Sorry, i guess i’m needed elsewhere.” You turned your attention back to Kimberly, “Nice meeting you though!”

You quickly shut the door and watched through the window as she finally left in a huff. Your lips curled into a smile and you could feel a gentle warmth behind you, a gentle tickle on your neck,

“Is she gone?” Eddie said from close behind you, his chest pressed up against your back, and though you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not you could feel the slight bulge in his jeans pressed up against your ass.

“Yep. Hopefully for good now.”

You let out a surprised squeal as Eddie picked you up into his arms, squeezing you tightly against him and gently shaking you around as he hugged you, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“Finally! Ugh, fuck i could kiss you right now (y/n).”

“Hey! Just cause i’m wearing your shirt doesn’t mean you get to kiss me, i like to be treated like a lady first, and you should have the decency to act like a gentleman.”

“Yeah i guess you’re right,” He finally set you down into his lap as he sat back down onto the couch, “i suppose i owe you that much. Friday?”

You smiled and furrowed your eyebrows at him,

“Are you asking me out?”

“Sure am. Come on, it’ll be fun, i’ll cancel Hellfire and you and me can do something. Just us.” He smiled at you as he saw your blushing cheeks.

You wrapped your arms around his neck,

“Yeah, why not,” You placed your hand onto his cheek and brought him closer to kiss the other side of his face, “i’d like to see how much of a gentleman you can be.” You said, pinching his cheek.

You laughed with one another before quickly realizing the position you were in.

Eddie was still shirtless, you still had no pants on, your arms were wrapped around his neck and his were around your waist. Needless to say, it was the closest the two of you had ever been before, but it was nice to be this close. He was warm, comforting even, and though his arms were only at your waist he kept you so close to him like you were going to fall.

“Hey, um…” He paused for a moment, and you thought you could see the faintest tinge of pink on his cheeks, “Can we stay like this for a little bit? It’s nice…” His thumb moved back and forth on your hip and you smiled up at him, quickly placing another kiss onto his cheek.

“Yeah… I’d like that. On one condition though,” You loosened your grip around his neck and pulled one of the blankets across the end of the couch over the two of you to keep yourselves warm, “i get to pick the next movie.”

He smiled and pulled you in close to him, placing a kiss to your temple,

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

_______________________________________________

“Mornin’” Kristy says cheerily, then flips on the overhead light.

Steve lurches up in bed next to you, hair sticking up in every direction. His brown eyes flick between you, then Mom, then you again, before dropping to the blankets barely covering his lower half.

“Oh, don’t worry, sweetie,” Mom says, sending him a wink over her shoulder as she stoops to pick up your clothes from the fucking floor. God, you could strangle this woman. “You got nothin’ I ain’t seen before. Now hurry and get dressed! We don’t have all day!”

Steve yanks up the blankets to cover his chest, squinting over at you.

The message is clear: do something. Well, he’ll find out soon enough it’s impossible to get rid of Kristy when she has her mind set on a plan.

You sigh, rubbing your bleary eyes. “What do you want, Mom?”

“Jenna had her baby last night. Everyone’s waiting, so, let’s go—”

“Wait, really?” you ask, surprised.

Guess those contractions she was having last night were real after all.

“I know! Can you believe it?” she squeals in girlish delight. “Best Christmas present ever!”

She then tries to jump up into a classic cheerleading pose, but stumbles, earning a chuckle from Steve that he smothers with the back of his hand.

You sigh heavily. “Mom, first of all, never do that again—”

“You like that?” she interrupts, “It’s from my cheer days.”

“Yeah, no. Secondly, what do you mean everyone is here?”

“Yeah, I thought there was a giant snowstorm last night,” Steve says, voice rough from sleep, and you have the wildest, most intense urge to kiss him stupid.

Mom rolls her eyes. “You think a little snow is going to keep us from meeting the newest member of this family? Cole has a snowplow, so we’re goin’ around collecting everybody, so, scoot your tushes—”

“Okay, we’ll get up, but you have to get out!” you say, tossing a pillow at her for good measure, which she dodges easily.

“Alright! Alright!” She backs toward the door, grinning. “I’ll be right outside.”

The door shuts, and you fall back onto the bed with a groan. You open your eyes to find Steve smiling down at you, his head haloed by the shine of the chandelier on the ceiling.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You snort softly. “Hi.”

His fingers brush your cheek, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his chest through the blankets.

Then his eyes drop to your lips.

You reach up and thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him down to you. He leans in, chin tilting until his lips brush yours —

“Blow each other later!” Mom calls through the door.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” You shout, shoving yourself out from under your boyfriend with a miserable groan. You look back at Steve, lying there warm and completely indecent under soft linen sheets, wanting nothing more than to crawl back to him.

“Can we do presents in the car?” you ask.

“Sure, Ace.” His eyes drag over your rumpled sleep set like he’d rather be unwrapping you instead. “But I’m just saying, whatever you got me is gonna have a hard time beating this.”

You huff, amused. “This?”

“Waking up to you in my bed?” His eyes soften as you smile back at him. “Best Christmas morning I’ve ever had.”

─── ✻ ───

“Okay, now hold on—” Steve whines. He lifts a finger off the steering wheel and points it in your direction. “You are making this sound so much worse than it is.”

“Steve,” you gasp, still laughing. “How could you not realize—watch out!”

The caravan makes a sudden right turn, and Tiff’s tires kick up a blinding cloud of snow that nearly whites out your windshield in the chaotic rush toward the hospital. Uncle Cole’s snowplow leads the way, while several cars filled to the brim with your family drive behind yours.

Steve recovers the car quickly, then rakes a hand through his hair, white-knuckling the steering wheel with the other. “Just—hear me out, Ace.”

You sit up in your seat, mimicking his ramrod posture and pretending very hard to be serious while you hold up his Christmas present for you.

A little H dangles on a gold chain, catching the first rays of sun as it peeks over the horizon.

“The H doesn’t have to stand for that,” he argues. “It could be for…happiness! Right? Or, fuck, I don’t know. Hamburgers! You love those!”

A grin tugs at your mouth, and you shoot him a knowing look. “Steve, you picked this out for me long before we got together.”

He lifts his hands in surrender, and you actually have to lurch across his lap and physically grab the wheel before you go careening out of line and into a snow pile. 

“Look,” he says, hands resuming their place at ten and two. “I just wanted you to have something that reminded you of me, okay? Y’know, since school is almost over.”

“Right. I mean, nothing says friendship like monogramming your best friend with your surname.”

“Listen! I swear, I'm not trying to..." He trails off as you reach over and run a hand through his messy chestnut hair. His eyes soften as he glances over at you, still laughing. 

“I love it,” you say.

His shoulders slump in relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And don’t worry.” You smile, patting the cool metal H against your chest. “I’ll tell everyone you were only planning on proposing strictly as a friend.”

“Oh my God—”

─── ✻ ───

The crisp morning air nips at your skin as you step out into the snowy parking lot. You arrived at the hospital before Steve could open your gift.

But he’s soon distracted from his disappointment when an avalanche of your family members pours from their cars and welcome him back with a flurry of hugs, kisses, (Aunt Tiff goes for the lips, the bitch), slaps on the back, and a fuck ton of I-told-you-so’s.

But the person most excited to see Steve…is Sam. 

“I knew you weren’t leaving forever!” your brother says, then fist-bumps him so hard Steve actually winces.

The hospital doors hiss open automatically, but your family acts like they couldn’t open fast enough. They burst into the lobby in a flurry of pink and blue balloons, loud Christmas greetings for strangers, and stacks of presents for the little one.

The security guard—a tall, well-built specimen of a man—catches Brielle’s bicep as she prances past, holding three bottles of wine. 

“Can’t bring that in here, miss,” he says, voice gruff. 

Brielle scoffs, jerking back when the guard tries to confiscate her alcohol. “Listen, my Aunt hasn’t had a drink in nine months!” Brielle argues, “It’s Christmas! The woman just gave birth for twelve hours, trust me—she’s going to need this.”

You share an amused look with Steve, and the conversation trails off in the distance as he gestures over to the elevator. 

Somehow, in the buzz of excitement, the balloons have found their way into PawPaw Ben’s hands. He looks quite the picture, grumpy scowl twitching under his mustache, waiting impatiently for the elevator to arrive while holding a mountain of floating latex.

You approach him in a fit of giggles, which quickly earns you a gruff, ‘shut up’ from your grandpa, but his eyes sparkle with laughter. 

The elevator ride up to the maternity ward is a sight to behold. 

“This is definitely past the weight limit,” Steve mutters, smushed between a bouquet of roses and a stack of presents. 

“Definitely,” you whisper back, sending him a small smile as everyone loudly places final bets about whether the baby is a boy or a girl.  

The doors open with a chime. Only when your shoes squeak against the hospital floor, do you feel like you can breathe again.

Violet and Sam trip over each other in their race down the hall, slowing the stampede for all of three seconds before everyone barrels into room twenty-five.  You sort of feel bad for any new mothers trying to catch a little shut-eye in this joint, thanks to the uproarious laughter and general chaos spilling from Jenna’s room. 

You hang back, letting the horde go first. Steve stays beside you, warm and solid in that red sweater, a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth as he looks over at you. 

“God, this coffee tastes like shit,” a familiar voice mutters behind you. 

You turn to see Dallas and Banks striding towards you under the florescent lights, Dallas grimacing as he takes another sip from the styrofoam cup in his hand.

“You’re just saying that because you take your coffee with an inhumane amount of creamer,” Banks says, “Not exactly living up to the sterotype, there, cowboy.”

The two of them look downright miserable. 

“Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of you up this early,” you tease.

Dallas shoots you a withering look. “As if I had a choice. Your mother practically ripped the sheets off me this morning.”

“Yeah, sorry, she does that.”

Banks looks smugly at Steve, then at you. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised…” he whispers over your shoulder before he and Dallas disappear inside the room. 

You roll your eyes and follow after him, threading your fingers through Steve’s. The second you step through the doorway, you catch sight of Jenna. 

She’s sitting up in the hospital bed, looking tired but beautiful in the early morning light as she cradles a tiny pink bundle in her arms.

A baby girl. 

You smile and pull your gaze up to meet hers, preparing to congratulate her, but her expression catches you off guard. 

She looks downright evil, smirking over at you and Steve.

“Kissing Clause,” she says cheekily.

Sam’s head whips towards you. “Kissing Clause!” he shouts. Then he turns to Kristy. “Mom! Kissing Clause!”

Mom stops cooing at the baby and looks over her shoulder, blonde ponytail swaying. Silence falls throughout the room as all eyes turn toward you two. 

And then, as if on cue, everyone bursts into laughter. 

Oh no.

“Steve,” you say, nonchalantly.

He hums. “Ace?”

“Is there mistletoe above us?”

His head tips back in your peripheral vision, and he huffs. “Yep. And I’m guessing that’s…bad?”

You shoot Jenna an exasperated look. “You just had a child and you’re already hanging mistletoe over your door, trying to catch us?”

She shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Priorities.”

Cole whoops from the couch next to the window. “We got them, boys!“

“Oh—” You scoff ruefully, gesturing towards Rick and Sam. “Stop high-fiving!”

Steve’s hand leaves yours to caress the curve of your waist. “Alright, somebody better start explaining, because I’m about two seconds away from kissing her in front of all of you.”

“No!” everyone shouts at once. 

Then, they all dissolve into laughing fits again. 

You narrow your eyes at the lot of them. 

Amy takes pity on your boyfriend. “On Christmas Day, if you get caught under the mistletoe without kissing, you’re forbidden to kiss your partner until the clock strikes twelve.”

Steve looks positively distraught. “You’re kidding, right? You’re saying I can’t kiss her for an entire day? Christmas Day?”

“It’s just until midnight!” Tiff says from the foot of Jenna’s bed. 

“Oh, sure, Tiff, just until midnight.” Steve sasses. “What happens if I do it anyway?”

“Then we throw you both out into the snow!” Sam cheers.

That just throws the room into another rowdy betting pool, pertaining whether or not you’ll make it until midnight. Amid this outrage, you feel a tug on your sleeve. 

“Sorry, got held up there for a second,” Brielle says, slipping past you and into the room, but not before you catch the mischief in her warm brown eyes.

You hum, unconvinced. “What, did the security guard have handcuffs or something?”

“No!” she says, then lowers her voice. “He took my booze! I’m pissed at him.”

“You got his number, right?”

“Of course I got his number, who do you think I am?”

You laugh, shoving her arm playfully, and she shoots you a wink before striding over and dropping a kiss on her aunt’s head.

“Steve?” Jenna says suddenly over the noise of the crowd, “Would you like to hold her?”

Steve’s head snaps towards her in surprise, and he hesitates, gaze dropping to the sleeping bundle in her arms once before shaking his head.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t—” he starts. 

You can’t resist twisting a hand in his sweater, watching the way his jaw clenches under the harsh hospital lighting.

“Have you ever held a baby before?” you ask softly.

He swallows, eyes still on the blanket. “It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. It’s just…I mean, people usually hand babies to the girls, y’know?”

 His eyes drop to yours as if looking for encouragement, or permission, and something in your heart twists. 

The room shifts around you, the groups talking amongst themselves as you tug Steve forward by the sleeve.

“What if I drop her?” he whispers.

Brielle steps aside when you both reach the bed and smiles at him. “You won’t. ”

“Her name is Joy,” Jenna says, sitting up as best she can and holding the baby out for you to take. Her tiny weight settles in your hands, that distinct baby smell turning your insides all gooey.

“It’s perfect for her,” you whisper, taking in Joy’s soft, dark hair and sleepy eyes. 

You turn to Steve, whose looking at you like you’re currently hanging the moon in the sky, and gesture for him to move closer. 

He bends down uncertainly, arms outstretched, and the warm bundle shifts from your hands into his until she’s safely settled in the crook of his arm. 

“Here, support her head,” you instruct. “Yeah, just like that. You got it!”

His eyes, which had been flicking between you and Jenna to make sure he was doing it right, are now glued to the baby in his arms like nothing could ever tear them away. 

“So tiny,” he whispers, “Look at you…little nugget.”

Your thumb catches on the cool H against your chest as you watch him. Joy blinks up at him, eyes wide and unfocused, and her fingers wriggle in the air. 

Steve grows more confident after a minute, and shifts her gently to free up one of his hands.

“Here. You wanna hold onto something?” he murmurs, raising his index finger over her face. Her tiny hand waves around, and when they make contact, her fingers wrap around his on instinct. 

“You’re a natural!” Cole says, his eyes tired from being up all night with his wife, but so full of love and excitement.

You’re so enamored with your boyfriend holding a baby for the first time, you barely notice Uncle Rick stepping up beside you, a steaming yeti in his hand. 

“Good Lord,” he chuckles. “We’re gonna have to mop you up from the floor.”

You roll your eyes and bump his arm with yours.

“Excited to have him next season. He’ll be good with the kids,” he says, gesturing with his coffee towards Steve. 

You frown. “Wait, what?”

Rick shrugs casually, but then he catches the look on your face and instantly starts tugging on his flannel collar, lips twitching downward beneath his mustache that looks just like his dad’s.

“Rick?” You press.

He clears his throat and looks away. “Shit. Uh—”

“Tell me, Rick.”

“Well, you know we’ve been looking for a replacement baseball coach at the elementary school in town. It’s good timing for me, I’ve been there long enough, and the middle school has a position opening I’ve been thinking about.”

You stare at him, eyes wide. “You offered Steve a coaching job?”

“It’s only a starter position,” he says placatingly, “but if he does well, he could move on to the bigger schools in the area. He hasn’t officially accepted it or anything. Said he needed to talk to you first.”

You think back to Steve pitching to Sam. Was that just yesterday? It feels like an eternity ago. You’ve always planned on moving back here after college. And the thought of Steve living in your hometown with you sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“You gotta admit,” Rick says, “'Coach Steve' has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

And you know what…

It really does.

─── ✻ ───

Steve has a stocking.

It’s red velvet with white trim, lined up with the rest above the fireplace in Pawpaw Ben and Nan’s living room, hanging right next to yours. 

He sees it the second you enter the room with Banks, Sam, and Dallas all in tow, (They’d all insisted you needed constant supervision since the Kissing Clause.)

Steve’s eyes go wide, and while everyone sprints to bury their hands in their own stocking, he only hesitates for a second before joining in.

The house smells like every good holiday memory you’ve ever had. Pine, cedar, and cinnamon—Mom no doubt already in the kitchen baking her cinnamon rolls. 

A new Christmas tree sits in the corner against the tall windows, glittering with lights and ornaments, and a pile of presents so big underneath you could probably get lost in it. 

Watching Steve rummage through a stocking that belongs to him, alongside all your cousins, makes you so happy that the back of your nose starts to burn. 

But the tears quickly dry when Steve withdraws his hand, holding...a book. 

The cover boasts a crude depiction of a cowboy pinning a girl up against a stable wall, one tan hand clamped over both her wrists.

Steve holds it up to you, and it only takes you a second to read the title. 

The One Rule Ranch. 

“Uh, Kristy?” Steve calls.

There’s a bang from the kitchen, then Mom swings around the corner, wearing an apron covered in flour. She catches sight of the book in his hand and sends him a wicked wink.  

“Merry Christmas!” she says, “There’s some great BDSM in that one. Might open your eyes to some things.”

Your jaw drops. “Mom!”

“What?” She turns to you and juts out her hip. “You’re the one who said he was vanilla.”

Steve’s head whips towards you. “You said that?”

“No, Steve, that was all her assumptions, I never—”

Steve’s not listening. 

The glow of the fireplace frames his broad shoulders as he advances towards you. You take a step back and then another, until your head hits the wall behind you, and then he’s towering over you, eyes dark and heated.

“Don’t kiss her!” someone warns from behind him.

That lock of hair falls over his brow and his chest rises and falls against yours, warm even through his sweater.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Steve says, eyes locked on yours. “I won’t.”

Damn.

Your breath catches, eyes dropping to his lips. Maybe it’s worth getting tossed into a snow bank just to feel his mouth on yours.

Steve leans in, breath brushing your ear, and your heart slams against your ribs.

“You wanna get freaky, Ace?” he whispers, “All you have to do is ask.”

You roll your eyes, even as butterflies erupt in your stomach.

He takes a step back, letting you squirm out from under his arm.

“We’re gonna talk about this later,” he warns, and he spanks your ass with the book as you walk past.

Mom giggles as you and Steve pass her in the doorway, then reaches for the book. “I’m just kiddin’. I lost that one a long time ago, didn’t know where it went. Here, I’ll take it—”

Steve snatches it back incredulously. “Uh-uh. It was in my stocking. And how else am I going to find out what this one rule is on the ranch?”

God, you need a drink.

Suddenly, a cold glass presses into your sweater, and you look down to see a freshly shaken dirty martini sitting in Banks’ ringed hand.

"Extra dirty," he says. 

“You actually have a superpower, you know that?” you mutter, taking the drink without looking at him.

“So I’ve been told,” Banks replies, before disappearing again, off to serve his role as alcohol fairy. 

Sam runs up and catches Steve’s hand.

“Harry, come play!” he pleads, pulling him further into the kitchen. You steal a gingerbread cookie from the counter on the way, earning a playful slap on the wrist from Gran. 

Christmas lights frame the window on the far side of the room, and the table is set with taper candles that cast a soft glow over Violet, Mason, and Jane as they sit in the chairs, cards in hand.

Steve looks over the table, hands on his hips. “Okay, what’re we playing here? Go fish? Uno?”

“Poker,” Jane says as if that’s the obvious answer.

Steve shakes his head. “Gambling already? Of course you are.”

“Just for M&M’s!” Sam insists.

“Oh, there’s candy involved?” Steve catches your hip and the wooden chair creaks as he pulls you down onto his lap. “Alright, deal me in.”

A few minutes later, half the chocolate candies on the table are gone, and Steve hasn’t had any. He tries to steal a bite of your cookie but you finish it off before he can, chuckling at his puppy dog eyes. 

Loud laughter, clinking silverware, and the banging of pots and pans echo from the kitchen.The smell of roasted meat and gingerbread fill your nose, making your stomach rumble. 

A few people have wandered in to escape the chaos and ended up staying to watch Steve lose to a group of kids. So many, in fact, you start to take pity on him.

“You know, if you—” you start, squinting down at his cards. 

“I’m not taking advice from you, Ace,” Steve interrupts, squeezing your thigh. “Don’t corrupt me with your cheating ways. I’m going to win fair and square. How’s that sound, Sam?”

“Sounds fine, Harry,” Sam says with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “But good luck winning with your hand.”

A round of “oooh’s” go through the room.

Steve gasps, pressing his cards to his chest. “Okay, but I don’t need luck, because unlike you all…I have an Ace.”

The two of you exchange a soft, secret sort of smile. 

“That reminds me,” you say casually, then reach down to fish a small box from your purse beside you. “Merry Christmas.”

You place Steve’s present in front of him on the table. 

His eyes lock with yours for a weighted second before he snatches up the gift.

“Um—presents after dinner!” Jane reminds, but the table falls quiet anyway as Steve peels back the ribbon and pulls a single playing card out of the box. 

An Ace of hearts. 

The edges are a little worn, the red ink faded slightly, but he recognizes it instantly. 

“I kept it that night,” you say. “After we met at that poker game at freshman orientation. I don’t know why, but I just…”

“Knew,” Steve finishes your sentence for you. 

His hand finds your leg under the table, and you lean into his touch. 

Suddenly, a sigh sounds from across the room. All eyes turn to find Dallas in the corner, sulking. 

“If one more person says something as cheesy as that tonight, I’m catching the next bus back to Texas, I swear—”

His phone starts ringing, cutting him off. He frowns and fishes it out of his pocket, but when he reads the name on the screen, his eyes light up. 

Your heart swells as he nearly throws himself out of the kitchen and out the front door to answer it. 

“Anya, hi. Y-yeah, Merry Christmas to you, too. Yeah, I—”

The door slams shut behind him, his muffled voice swallowed by the crowd. 

Steve looks back down at the card, then up at you. 

“Hold on. You gave me all that crap about the necklace, but you were still gonna give me this? Even if we didn’t end up together?”

You shrug, a smile pulling at your lips. “You can never have enough Aces, can you?”

“You’re right," he says, "I’ll keep it in my wallet for dire times. Such as…now!”

He slams the card on the table, along with his whole hand, revealing a flush. 

“That’s cheating!” Jane accuses, now on her feet. 

Mason rolls his eyes. “Oh, C’mon, you’re not—he’s not playing that!”

“Why not? She does it all the time,” Steve says, motioning towards you and then leaning back in the chair with a charming grin. “Now, give me some of that candy.”

─── ✻ ───

If someone were to ask you what the best Christmas gift you’ve ever received is, you’d tell them it was this: watching Steve Harrington sit in your favorite room, smushed on the couch between your family members, with a pile of presents at his feet.

All of them with his name on them.

His cheeks are red from the wine, and the firelight, and from getting the attention and doting he’s always deserved but never had before.

“For you, honey,” Mom says, passing Dad a present from under the tree before looking at the crowd. “Did anyone get him what he really needs?”

“A haircut?” Gran pipes up from the corner. 

Dad shoots her a withering look.

Mom laughs. “No, something to inspire his next bestseller.”

Dad shakes his head. “I already got that.”

“You did?”

His gaze swings to where you’re standing beside the windows, then he tips his chin toward Steve on the couch. 

“You inspired me, kids,” he says.

A smile steals across your lips, and you hold your glass out to cheers him from afar. 

Steve’s eyes narrow, darting between you and Ed. “Okay, but if you’re going to write me, I need to proofread this thing. I mean, what if you don’t describe my hair right?”

Laughter fills the room. It’s soft, and warm, and it feels like home.

Later, after the sun’s gone down, and the pile of wrapping paper is officially taller than the Christmas tree, Steve’s eyes catch yours from across the room. He approaches you by the windows, and when he notices your empty drink, his brows furrow. 

“Here,” he says, reaching for your glass. “Let me get you another.”

“Oh, it’s fine, I can—” you start, but he’s not listening.

“Anybody else want anything?” he calls, already moving away from you. 

A few people pipe up with their orders, and he nods, then disappears into the kitchen.

A few minutes go by with no sign of him, so you pad over to the kitchen to investigate. The sound of cold beers clinking against each other greets you first, then the slam of drawers. You turn the corner to see Steve rummaging around, searching the cabinets for something.

You lean your head against the doorframe. “C’mon, Steve. You held up at first base, or what?”

“I’m trying to find the bottle openers—” Steve freezes, then whips towards you. His lips part in amusement. “Was that baseball terminology?”

“Oh—sorry. Coach,” you amend, smirking. “Forgot that part.”

He leans back against the counter and faces you, but when you catch his eyes, they hold a seriousness you weren’t expecting.

“Listen, I was gonna talk to you about the job,” he says. “I just figured maybe you wanted a couple days before we started deciding things like that—”

“Take it.”

He swallows hard, looking at you intently. “Really?”

“Yes, Steve.” You step over to him, and his hands find your waist immediately. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Ace, and that’s why I don’t want you to feel…rushed? Fuck, I don’t know, we just—”

“I don’t feel rushed,” you insist, cutting him off. “I think it’s fantastic. I mean, if it’s what you want to do. You know, you don’t have to move here for me if you don’t want to.” You thread your fingers through his. “Whatever you want, we’ll make it work. Together.”

Gone is the tightness in your chest at those words. Thanks to everything you went through this Christmas, you really believe them now.

Steve smiles softly down at you.

“I think I’d like it. Coaching, I mean. I knew I wanted to do something with sports, and then teaching Sammy the other night…” He brings your hands up to his chest, his warm fingers closing over yours. “I don’t know. It felt right.”

You exhale, relieved. “I would love for you to be here. Fuck, Steve. I’d really, really love it.”

His eyes dart between yours, then drop to your lips.

“For real?” he breathes.

You smile. “For real.”

His shoulders drop with relief and happiness, and then, without hesitation, he dips his chin and his lips meet yours.

Your stomach flips and you kiss him back. Lovingly. Adoringly. 

Distantly, you hear someone say, “Wait…is anyone else in the kitchen with them?”

But you’re not really listening, lost in Steve’s soft exhales, the gentle glide of his tongue, the way his hands grip your hips like you’re the only thing that matters in his world—

“Oh my God, they’re kissing!”

You and Steve spring apart in unison and whirl around. 

A stunned Brielle stands in the doorway, dark curls lit with the kitchen light. Then, she grins devilishly. 

“Guys! Get them!” she shouts.

Oh, shit.

“Run!” you say to Steve. 

But neither of you even make it out of the kitchen before they’re on you.

“You know the rules!” Aunt Tiff shouts as you squeal, twisting away from the hands grabbing at your sweater. 

“No!” Steve laughs as Dallas and Rick advance on him at once. He’s trapped in the corner of the kitchen, nowhere to run. “No! Listen—you know how long I waited for this girl? Just—wait a second, oh my God—” 

Dallas and Rick each grab him under one arm, dragging him toward the door as he keeps trying to plead his case. 

You’re laughing so hard you can’t catch your breath as the front door opens, spilling cold air into the entryway.

Ed swings around on your other side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and hauling you forward.

“Not you, too!” you gasp. “Seriously? Where’s your sense of romance, Dad? I—”

“Heave ho!” Gran calls from the doorway, as hands drag you down the steps.

Then, in unison, they release you.

Straight into a snow pile.

Steve catches you a second before you hit the snow, breaking your fall and rolling you underneath him. The cold snow soaks into your clothes, but Steve smiles down at you, hair framed by the porch light, eyes full of laughter and love, and God, it’s the single most gorgeous thing you’ve ever seen.

“C’mere, Harrington,” you whisper, curling your icy fingers into his sweater, and pulling his mouth to yours once more. 

And as you kiss Steve in the snow, under the stars and the cheers of your family, a deep nostalgia settles in your heart.

Not for your past.

But for your future.

And it starts now.

─── ✻ ───

a/n: I can't believe we're here....the last chapter of The Real Deal. Thank you so much for everyone who has read, shared, and commented. Especially those who sent me such lovely words about how this story has touched them. It makes me so incredibly happy, you literally have no idea.

This story bloomed a lot from where it began, and I could go on about it forever, but Ace and Steve will continue to live in my heart for a lot of reasons.

Thank you a million times over, I love you all so much.

(By the way, there will also be an epilogue eventually hehe)

✻ steve masterlist ✻ landing page ✻

taglist: @tennisgirlsrooms, @eleshka-still, @idontread4, @treebabe , @flourishing-sapphic ,

@eller41, @djolover4ever , @parabathigh , @stoneyggirl2 , @remorsefuul,

His head snaps toward you. The lighter slips from his hand. You bite your lip as he fumbles around for it, then rolls his window down. You look down at him—heart on his sleeve in the driver’s seat with a half-burned cigarette between his fingers. 

“What are you doing out here?” You ask, hugging your jacket tighter as the wind picks up.

He shrugs. “Just waitin’ on you, Ace.”

In more ways than one. 

He rolls the window up, unfolds himself from the car, and suddenly he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from him, see his breaths cloud up into the night. His red jacket smells like smoke, and for some reason, that pulls at something sharp beneath your ribs. 

You shuffle your weight, angling yourself towards the inn. “You wanna go inside?”

You expect him to jerk his head towards the door and fall in step behind you like he always does. But he doesn’t. 

Instead, he just leans back against the car door, arms crossed, ankles loosely hooked. 

“Okay,” Steve says, sniffing once, then crooking two fingers. “Give it to me.”

“What?”

He lifts the cigarette, eyebrows raised. “My lecture.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “What are you talking about? I don’t—”

“Oh, my mistake,” he says, “Must’ve gotten you confused for some other girl who always gets onto me for smoking.” 

The inn’s light catches on his lashes as he looks down and nudges at the snow with his shoe. It’s falling hard now, dusting his shoulders, catching in his chair. 

“Well, this girl, ” you start, swallowing thickly. “I’m sure she only lectures you because…well…” the world stills around you, even the snow seems to fall quieter as you whisper, “…because she loves you.”

His eyes snap to yours. You watch the rise and fall of his chest, your own heartbeat picking up to match. 

“Oh yeah?” he says, taking a step towards you. Then another, snow crunching under his shoes. “She tell you that?”

You shrug, blinking back the snowflakes hitting your lashes as his hand finds your waist.

Steve looks down at you, hair hallowed by the Christmas lights. It reminds you of the way he looks under that flickering orange lamppost back on campus. 

“‘Cause she hasn’t said it to me,” he says softly. 

Your breath catches, heart fluttering in your throat. You know what he means. What he’s asking for. 

He needs you to say it first. 

He doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t close the gap. Instead, he waits for you. He’s good at that. 

He always has been. 

And all of a sudden, there’s nothing holding you back. 

“I love you, Steve.” 

The confession slips from your tongue, barely louder than the silent night surrounding you. 

He smiles. “I know.”

 The world narrows to the space between your lips, the frost creeping into your toes—alive in your own personal snow globe. 

“So,” Steve murmurs after a long moment, “we plannin’ to freeze to death out here, or are you gonna kiss me, Ace?”

You shrug, a soft smirk tugging at your mouth. “Sorry. I don’t kiss smokers.”

“Well,” he sighs, then without breaking eye contact, flicks the cigarette onto the ground. The ember flares, then dies with a soft hiss in the grey snow. “Good thing some girl convinced me to quit—”

You cut him off with your lips on his. 

It’s a gentle kiss. Sweet. Soft. 

But Steve doesn’t keep it that way. 

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in, deepening it instantly. Hungrily. 

A nostalgic ache settles deep in your ribs. 

Your body remembers this feeling — Steve’s mouth against yours. 

Granted, however brief, and tasting of marshmallows and beer that kiss was, it’s still exactly how he kisses today. 

God, you must be a masochist. How have you been depriving yourself of this? Of him? For years?

You open your mouth to say as much, but the second your lips part, his tongue slips past like he was waiting for it. A soft sound escapes you, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers fist in his jacket. He tastes like smoke, and those peppermints he always keeps in his car, and maybe, if you try hard enough, you could find a way to bottle this feeling up and keep it forever and ever. 

Keep him. 

You move to press even closer, but as you shift your weight, your foot slips. You squeak, mouth falling from his, but his arms are already around you, hauling you upright before you can hardly react. You barely catch your balance before he’s kissing you again. 

“Inside,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough. 

You shiver, but this time, it’s not from the cold as he grabs your sleeve and tugs you toward the inn. 

A bell above the door jingles as you stumble through together— a tangle of mouths, hands, and no muscle memory between you whatsoever. 

The entryway is narrow, lined with wreaths and candle sconces. A staircase curves up along the right wall, banister worn smooth by decades of hands. Past it, a small dining room sits quiet end empty, waiting for the breakfast rush come morning.

To the left, a tall mirror stretches nearly to the ceiling, and when you catch your reflections—him pulling you forward, your hand in his—it almost doesn’t feel real. 

Amazingly so. 

“Hey, stranger,” the girl behind the counter says, voice like honey. You recognize her instantly. 

Dark curls spill past her shoulders with a natural volume you’d definitely kill for, and her warm brown skin seems to glow under the soft lighting.

God, you almost forgot how stunning she is. No wonder Dallas can’t get over her. 

“Anya!” You say, nearly tripping as Steve keeps you tucked against his side. “Merry Christmas! Sorry, we just—God, it’s been, what, three years?” 

“Something like that,” she says softly, twisting her full lips to hide a smile as Steve pulls you in for another kiss. 

And another. And another. 

Laughter bubbles up in your chest and you smile against his mouth. You’re equally unable to let him go now that you finally have him. 

Anya clears her throat. 

Right. 

“Oh! Steve, wait—” you rush to get the words out. “Wait. Hold on a second—Anya she—” was almost a part of the family. “—knows our family, and—”

“Introductions later,” he says against your jaw. “If she knows your family, then she’s not surprised by this.”

Anya shakes her head. “Yeah, I’m really not.”

“See?” Steve gestures vaguely toward her without looking, then grabs your belt loops and drags you back against him. 

“Besides, Kristy called,” Anya adds, amused. “Said you might show up like…this.”

“Room.” Steve says, distracted, and still kissing you. “Key. Now. Please. Thanks.”

“Sorry, Anya, he’s—” 

Steve shuts you up again, tongue tangling with yours. You’re vaguely aware of a ledge pressing into your ass, but you’re too busy making out with him to really care. 

“—eager,” Anya finishes for you, one brow raised at the display currently happening over her counter. “Good lord. Alright, well, listen, go crazy. But I just need a card, a receipt signature, and then you can…”

“Shit—too long,” Steve mutters. Before you can even reach for your wallet, he’s slamming down two crumpled hundreds from his back pocket.

The same ones your dad gave him for fixing the sink. 

Your mouth drops open in protest, but his hand tightens on your hip, a quiet don’t start. And honestly, you’re too breathless to fight him at the moment. 

Anya smirks, pocketing the cash. Then she grabs a key from the board behind her and sits it down on the counter. 

“Third door on the left,” she says. “And try not to ruin the sheets.” 

You scoff and reach for the key but Steve’s hand blindly beats you to it. 

Anya eyes him, unimpressed. “Or make a baby.”

Steve’s mouth drops open against your neck, a choking sound escaping him and his hand slips. The key skitters across the floor with a sharp clink clink clink. 

He drops you immediately to go after it, cheeks flushed. 

You bite back a laugh and turn to Anya, who leans over the counter, tugging her lavender sweater sleeves over her fingers. 

“Hey, uh, this might be weird of me to ask, but…” she says, soft and meek, tucking a curl behind her ear. The light catches on the piercings lining the shell of her ear, each boasting a small glittering jewel.

Steve returns to your side, hand wandering back to interlock with yours and bring it up to his lips, like he couldn’t stand to be away for two seconds. 

“Anya,” you say, “I promise you—nothing you say right now is going to be weird. My boyfriend is currently making out with my hand.”

Steve groans against your fingers the second the word boyfriend leaves your mouth. No ‘fake’ in front of it this time.

“Right,” she says, smiling a little. “Um, sorry, but I just heard that Dallas was back in town? And well, I guess…I was just wondering. If that was true, I mean.”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “He is.”

She nods, tracing a finger along the counter and squinting down at it like she’s suddenly found something very interesting in the wood grain. “Okay. Thanks.”

“You should call him.”

You don’t know what just possessed you to say that. Some unseen cupid’s arrow has shot through you, making you lovesick all of a sudden. 

Her dark eyes meet yours, something unreadable swimming in them. 

“Maybe,” she says.

Then her eyes shift to Steve, who’s already pulling you toward the stairs, one arm tight around your waist.

“I swear, if I get noise complaints…” 

“You won’t!” You say quickly. 

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, glancing down at you like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ace.”

Anya groans, covering her ears. “Oh my God. Get a room. Literally get in your room. Before I start hearing it from here.”

“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “And you should call Dallas! Seriously. I think he’d love to hear from you. I mean, I don’t know, but—”

“Ace,” Steve groans. “Please.”

You don’t resist as he pulls you up the stairs. And if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve never really been able to resist anything when it comes to your heart and Steve Harrington.

─── ✻ ───

The second the bedroom door thuds shuts, he’s on you. 

Hands up your sweater, tongue tangling with yours. Your head swims with the realization that…you’re really doing this. Kissing your best friend. About to have sex with your best friend. 

“Steve—” you gasp as his mouth finds your collarbone, heat curling low in your belly. “Maybe we should talk about—”

“‘nough talking,” he mumbles against your skin.

“Okay, but I just—mmmph.”

He captures your mouth again and you melt into his kiss. Is second-hand nicotine a thing? Can it be transferred this way? Surely that’s why you’re lightheaded and absolutely addicted to him already? That must be it. 

Your hands find purchase in his hair, dragging him closer, and he gasps.

“P-please,” he stammers, pulling back just enough to let the words spill between your mouths. “Keep doing that. God, I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“What?” You tug on his hair gently. “This?”

His head tips back with a whimper. You’ll tease him mercilessly for that later. But for now, you just press further into him, standing on your tip toes to plant hot kisses down the column of his throat.

His hands tug on your sweater and your arms lift automatically. Cold air rushes over your lace bralette and something in your chest tightens. 

Steve doesn’t know why you’ve changed your mind so suddenly like this. If you were him, you’d want to know the reason for this total shift in behavior. 

“Hey,” you whisper, catching his biceps and holding him back. 

A lock of hair falls over his brow as he stares down at you. “What? What is it, Ace?”

“I’m sorry, I just—” Your forehead tips onto his shoulder. “I just need to explain.”

“No you don’t,” he says. “Not for me.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you.”

You shake your head. “But—”

He sighs. “Here. Let me guess. Can I guess?”

You nod. Mostly because you can’t imagine stringing two words together right now.

“You talked with your parents. Or, your Mom. Yeah?”

His head dips, eyes trying to find yours, but you burrow into him further. A soft chuckle ghosts over your ear as he tucks you into his chest. 

“I knew you’d come around eventually,” he whispers. “I mean, c’mon…who could say no to all this?”

He leans back to gesture at his body and you laugh despite yourself, eyes welling with tears. He tilts your face up and the tender, understanding look in his eyes unlocks something deep inside your chest. 

“I…I don’t want to ruin this,” you whisper. 

The confession feels like ripping an arrow from your chest. Your deepest fear served to him on a silver platter. 

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just leans in again. 

“Ruin me,” he whispers against your mouth, punctuating his words with a soft kiss. “I don’t care.” Another. “I’m all yours.”

No, it doesn’t erase your fear. Not entirely. But maybe, just maybe, you can let yourself believe him. That whatever you have to face, you can do it together.

Steve feels the moment you give in, the soft sigh into his mouth. 

Because the next thing you know, your wrists are pinned against the door above your head with one of his hands, the other flying to undo your pants. You cant your hips into him with equal fervor as he practically rips the jeans off your body, leaving you in just your bra and panties. 

Soft creamy linens and lamplight spin in your vision as picks you up, strides across the small room, and tosses you onto the bed. Your back barely hits the downy comforter before he’s following you down. 

There’s an emotion lingering in the air, hovering like an expensive perfume. That lamp beside you almost feels too bright. Just being able to see the ivy wallpaper feels like the vines are reaching out and chocking you.

Chill bumps race over your exposed skin and Steve chases them with his tongue, pulling you close like you’re something to be treasured.  

“Steve,” you breathe, not even sure why you’re calling out to him. But you just need to know he’s…

“I’m here,” he whispers. 

His voice unties that knot in your throat. The ivy stops crawling towards you.

He’s dragging the lace from your body, but even so, he’s busy kissing the strangest parts of you.

The inside of your wrist, the tip of your ear, the curve of your knee. 

Sex isn’t like this. 

In your experience, sex is haphazardly peeling off clothes in the dark and banging your toe on your way to the bed. It’s always filled with those awkward moments where you’re trying to decide who should be on top and then your hair gets stuck under his elbow anyway. 

But with Steve, it’s different. 

With every inch of skin he reveals, he looks at you with a reverence, an intimacy that’s so deep you almost want to hide your face from it. 

But you don’t.

You’re done hiding from what you feel for him. 

When you’re finally naked beneath him, Steve exhales shakily and leans over you, warm hands drifting over your breasts, your waist, your hips. Like he can hardly believe it. 

“God, you’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “C’mere…”

Your eyes slip shut as he kisses you deeply, and you reach for him blindly, expecting to feel the planes of his back, but instead, you feel cloth. He still has his shirt on. 

Well, that won’t do. 

Gripping the fabric, you tug hard to pull it over his head. He helps halfway, but gets distracted when his nose brushes one of your perky nipples and he just has to go in for a taste. 

You moan at the feel of his mouth on your breast, arching into him, craving skin against skin. But your core brushes against rough denim. 

Okay, that’s it. 

You shove him back with a strength you didn’t know you possessed. He lifts off you, surprised, then huffs a laugh when you push his back against the headboard and straddle his hips. 

In a flurry of hands, you finally manage to yank his shirt over his head. His chest hair tickles your stomach as you grind your hips against him. He’s breathing hard beneath you, and when you unzip his jeans and tug them down, his cock strains against his black boxers, begging for your touch. 

Mouth watering, you reach for him.

But Steve catches your wrist. “I promised you two orgasms, remember? Let me go down on you first.” 

The desperation in his voice makes your knees weak. How could you deny him?

When he kisses you again, you melt into him. He’s so strong, and warm, and he tastes so good. A smoky sweetness that lights up some primal and urgent circuit in your brain. 

“I love you so much,” he whispers, mouth trailing lower as his hands cup your breasts. “God, I—ever since you looked at me over that poker table…I was fuckin’ gone.”

Your breath hitches. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Since then?”

“Since then.”

You shake your head, an unbelieving smile tugging at your lips. “Wait, but—so, that night at the campfire…you had…feelings for me?”

Steve makes an irritated sound deep in his throat. He grips your hips and rolls you sideways, flipping you onto your back, arms braced on either side of your pillow. The lamplight frames his broad shoulders, cutting through his messy hair. 

“You’re such an idiot sometimes, Ace. You know that?” 

That stray lock falls into his eyes. You reach up and brush it back. 

“Hmm. Little tip? Maybe don’t insult a girl when she’s naked underneath you, Harrington. She could just throw on her clothes and walk out that door.”

A dangerous glint flashes in his eyes. 

“She could.” He moves down until his mouth hovers between your legs. “But she won’t.”

Oh, shit. 

The confidence in his tone and the way he licks his lips as he leans in sends hot pulses through your core. The first drag of hot tongue along your soft folds feels like heaven. You keen into it immediately, but his hand clamps down on your lower stomach, holding you in place beneath him. 

“Poor girl,” he sighs mockingly. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

His tongue strokes through you once. Twice. Then, he murmurs, “Just wanna make you feel good. No pressure, okay? I’d do this all night.” 

You don’t have time to reply before he settles between your thighs wrapping his hands around your knees and sealing his mouth to your cunt. 

It’s very sweet of him to reassure you in that way, especially given your history. But as it turns out, he didn’t really need to.

He’s only been sucking on your clit for a minute before that familiar rush burns through your core. Your breathing picks up, walls clenching around nothing. 

Sparks ignite under your skin, rushing down, down, pulling tight at that hot band between your hips—and when the first wave of deep, mindless pleasure hits, Steve’s eyes snap up to yours. 

“Oh, fuck, already?” He mumbles. 

You whimper, threading both hands through his hair and yanking him closer, riding it out on his tongue. 

Through the rush of the orgasm, you forgot about his…hair thing. 

Steve’s eyes roll back as he eats you out with renewed fervor, fingernails digging crescent moons into your thighs. He buries his face in you so deeply you wonder if he can even breathe like that. Then he groans—long and low—a crease forming between his brows. 

Your mouth drops open, stomach clenching as you watch him. When the stimulation gets to be too much, you push him away by his hair and he lets you. Lips puffy and pink, he gazes up at you, lashes damp. 

You’re gorgeous, you want to tell him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. 

He’s looking down.

Frowning, you try to look over the edge of the bed, but he tugs your ankles, making you lose your balance and fall on your back against the mattress. “What the—Steve?”

“It’s fine,” he slurs. “I just…uh…”

“Steve—quit—” You shove his hands off your ankles, grab his wrists, and pull him up onto the bed. He moves stiffly until he’s sitting against the headboard. When his eyes find yours again, he looks almost…guilty. 

You sit up, unsure of what’s gotten into him. But when your gaze drops to his underwear—and the wet spot at the front—you understand. 

God, but you can’t deny how good he looks stretched out like this, cock still hard and straining beneath the fabric. 

You lick your lips. 

Suddenly, the need to know what he tastes like grips your spine. Good lord, he’s gone down on you twice now and you still haven’t—How could you not have—?

“Listen,” Steve says, hands up in an appeasing gesture as he watches you crawl towards him on the bed. “I just want you to know that this is…not typical. Normally I lost longer, okay? Aghh—shit. What are you doing? Oh, shit.”

When your mouth meets the fabric, your tongue slips out immediately, gliding along his length. He’s still so hard, even though he just came, so he must be really fucking turned on. 

A dark thrill runs through you at the fact that you did this to him.

You. His overthinking best friend with the insane family and the bad habit of cheating at poker.

You can hardly believe it.

But there’s no mistaking the way his pupils blow wide as you part your lips around the flushed tip barely peeking out from his waistband. You suck gently, not letting a drop go to waste, and you look up at him, just to see how he’s affected by it. 

His hips jerk up uncontrollably when your eyes meet his, and then he moans so loudly you almost clap a hand over his mouth. 

“Shut up,” you whisper, a giggle building in your chest. “You’re acting like you’re trying to get a noise complaint or something.”

“Okay, what the fuck do you want from me?” He pants. “My best friend is licking up my cum. Oh, my God.”

You swirl your tongue under the head, teasing the pulsing ridge with your lips.

Your view is incredible. 

Chest heaving under that smattering of dark chest hair, toned stomach muscles flexing as he holds himself back from owning your throat. 

You kind of wish he wouldn’t. 

“God you just…you just unravel me, Ace.” He whimpers and grabs the curve of your ass in an attempt to pull himself together. “I have a condom in my wallet…I’ll grab it.”

He surges forward, fumbling for his jeans beside the bed but you stop him with a hand on his arm. 

“Okay, but—“ You trail off, suddenly unsure of how to say this. 

Steve looks at you steadily. “But, what?”

“Well, I’m on birth control.”

Steve just stares, barely breathing. 

“And I’m…safe.” You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy. “You know I actually do those physicals the school offers.”

“Me too.”

You blink, surprised. “You do? But you always made fun of me for that!”

“Of course I did.” He shrugs, settling back against the headboard. “But I figured if you did them, I could too.”

You smirk down at him. “Wow. I had no idea I’ve been so influential in keeping you healthy and safe, Steve. This is such an honor—”

“Oh my God, Ace. Just ride my dick.”

You raise onto your knees to line him up, but the feel of his hard length caressing your clit, slick with arousal, nearly buckles them again.

“I got you,” Steve reassures, steadying you with a hand on your hip. “It’s okay.”

When he notches at your entrance, you sink down hesitantly. The stretch is more than you expected, even with how turned on you are. But, incredible.

You exhale shakily and try again, sliding down a little deeper this time. 

Steve’s panting, eyes fixed on where you’re connected. His shoulders tense and he bites back a moan as you take him another inch. Pleasure digs into your core like teeth. Like claws. Gripping you hard and filling you up. 

When you do a little experimental swirl of your hips, his palm comes down with a muted thwump on the pillow beside him. You, however, realize you’ve only taken about half of him. 

“God, Steve,” you groan. “Don’t let this go to your head…but you’re fucking b-big. Damn.”

“Yeah, well,” he huffs a laugh. “You saw it the other night, so…”

Your head tips back as the firm pressure drags along your inner walls. “Do you hear me complaining?”

“Well, I just—mmm—don’t want you to f-feel bad.”

You freeze, gaze snapping to his. “What do you mean?”

His eyes widen. “Forget it. Move your hips again like that, that felt really good.”

You sit up straighter. “Why would I feel bad that you have a big cock, Steve?”

“I just meant—” He blows out a breath. “Well, most girls can’t take it all the way, and yeah, I know I sound like a total asshole, so I’m gonna be shutting up now.”

You can hardly believe your ears. “Most girls, huh?”

“I already said! I’m a douchebag, alright? Please—I didn’t mean—”

You sink down on him in one decisive motion, determined to prove a point. What can you say? You’re a competitive bitch. 

Steve gasps, eyes glassy and wide. But the shock melts quickly into something molten. 

“Fuck,” he pants, fingers digging into your hips. “Baby. Fuck.”

“Shit, Steve,” you gasp. “Feel like I can feel you in my fucking throat.”

“Oh my God, does it hurt?”

The dull ache only adds to the pleasure, spiraling you from turned-the-fuck-on to downright feral. Sweat beads on your lower back as your hands drag down his chest, nails biting into his skin until he hisses. 

“No, you’re just r-right up against my cervix,” you say. 

His eyes darken and a shiver runs down your spine. His grip on your waist tightens, and instead of just holding you, he’s guiding instead. Pulling you up, then back down. Slowly at first, then harder when he sees your thighs start to shake. 

“Oh, baby, baby,” you moan, eyes rolling back. “Yeah. Just like that.”

He buries his face in your shoulder. “Love when you call me that.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close as he sits up, arms wrapping around you to thrust deeper.

“Oh my God yeah—you’re gonna make me come again, I swear,” Steve says against your mouth. “Good thing I already...fuck, I wouldn’t last like this otherwise.”

“Mmm. Thought you said that wasn’t a normal thing for you.”

“It wasn’t!” he stammers, hips driving into you while he whines, eager and needy. “It isn’t! Usually. Just with you, Ace.”

The energy between you is electric. The sparks have turned into a fire, roaring between you, turning the sheets hot. Gone are the soft, teasing kisses. This is something else. Something inevitable and passionate, an accumulation of the tension that’s built for years between you, finally breaking. 

Your bodies move together perfectly. Effortlessly. Fitting together and meeting each stroke in sync, like you were made for each other. 

Steve groans against your chest like he’s in agony. 

You rake your hand though this hair and graze your lips over his temple, a silent question hidden in your touch. 

“Want this to be good for you, Ace,” he rasps. “Wanna treat you right. But I—I…”

You understand what he means. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” He sounds fucking wrecked. 

You nod against his hair. “I want it. I want you.”

That’s all it takes. 

The next second, your face is pressed into the pillow, another fitted under your hips. Steve is behind you, hands on your thighs, spreading open your pussy with his fingers. 

You groan into the fabric, back bowing as he touches you perfectly. 

Yes, this is what you want: Steve unhinged. It’s what you’ve wanted from the beginning. 

Eyes squeezed shut, you steady yourself for him to slot right back where he was, but instead, something hot and wet slides over you. 

“Jesus, Steve.” You gasp, muffling your words with your hand as you push back against his tongue. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.”

His grip on your legs tightens, keeping you right where he wants you. Unable to push back, unable to pull away. Just trapped against his warm, willing mouth. Boneless with desire. 

“Just don’t wanna hurt you,” he says softly.

“You know, Harrington, a little humility every once in awhile wouldn’t hurt you. I think I’ve proven I can take it.”

You turn to scowl over your shoulder but his tongue circles your clit and you fall back against the pillow.

“Yeah? Well we’ll just see how mouthy you are with nine inches stuffed in here.”

He punctuates his words by thrusting two fingers deep inside you. When they curl and hit that spot deep inside, you don’t even realize you’re crying out until his other hand smothers you. 

He huffs a laugh, pushing in deeper with his fingers and circling your clit with his thumb — skilled in a way you’ve never experienced before. 

“Look at you, dripping’ down my hand.” His fingers pull out of you and you whine at the loss. But then you hear the slick sound of them disappearing into his mouth. “Tastes so damn good.”

“Steve—” you laugh, breathless, and he pulls his hand away. “When did you get this mouth on you? I never knew you were…”

You look over your shoulder at him. He’s got that teasing smirk on his lips. 

“What?” He tilts his head. “Want me to shut up?”

“What? Fuck no.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The soft hair on his thighs tickles the backs of yours as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides in deep and fast this time, eased by your arousal and his precum, and a choked sound tears from your throat.

“Shit—you good?” he rasps. 

You reach back blindly, finding his thigh and pulling him closer, urging him on. 

“Hey,” Steve says, “Hey. Look back at me.”

His voice holds a dominant edge that has you obeying instantly, peeking over your shoulder at him again.

He looks fucking wrecked. 

Lips parted and glossy, cheeks pink, hair mussed. That little crease between his brows nearly sends you over the edge—fuck, you have it bad.

“Just n-needed to see you. Shit, cock drunk already, Ace?” He bites his lip, thrusting into you and your teeth sink into your bottom lip, wishing it was his. “L-let me touch that swollen little clit. You’re so good for me. Knew you would be.”

Okay, now he’s just showing off that mouth. But you clench involuntarily around him in response. That sends him scrambling for a better hold on your hips, tits, anything he can fucking grab onto to help prevent himself from spilling his load too early. Again. 

The room fills with the clapping sound of your bodies meeting over and over. His stroke game is good, and he’s hitting places in you that have never—never—been reached before. 

You can already feel that rising ache growing in your core, legs shaking against the mattress.

“Oh my God.” You moan into the pillow, the sound spilling from somewhere primal.

“You know, if you don’t pipe down right now, you’re not gonna have a voice tomorrow,” Steve mutters between harsh breaths. But his words don’t hold any bite because he just drives in harder, making you see fucking stars. “And then we’re going to have to explain to your whole family why you can’t fucking talk all the sudden. Not that they won’t figure it out anyway, those dirty minded—”

“Tomorrow?” you gasp. “S-so you’re not…leaving?”

He scoffs, annoyed, but there's endearment there too. “Ace. You’re so dense sometimes, I swear. Does this—” he snaps his hips forward, driving deep deep enough to make your mouth to fall open. “—feel like I’m still leaving you?”

“No,” you whine.

“Good girl.”

Oh, God. 

“I’m never leaving,” he says, softer now, leaning over to drop a kiss on your shoulder. “Never. Okay?”

You nod, tears welling up in your eyes. Something about his words, and the way he says them, sends you barreling towards that second release and you’re powerless to stop it. 

“God. You’re clenching around me so tight, baby. Tell me you’re mine.”

You’re breathing hard, heart fluttering, core aching. But you still have enough mental clarity to give him what he wants. 

“I’m yours,” you gasp. 

And it’s true. You’ve really been his for a long, long time. 

Where your first orgasm was rough and mindless, this one is slower and even more brilliant. It cascades through you like warm wine, pulling you into it’s depths, sending tight pulses down into your core, and driving Steve into a state. 

Steve loses his rhythm, his thrusts quickly turning sloppy. Rough sounds escape him as he barrels towards his release, but he’s too far behind you for you to cover his mouth with your hand. 

He comes inside you before you’re done pulsing, folding himself over you and pressing his face into your neck to halfway muffle the sound. He stays there as your bodies settle down, pressing sweet kisses down your spine. 

And then, against your skin, he whispers. 

“Finally.”

─── ✻ ───

“I’m just saying, pretty sure life-threatening injury wins over your ‘but, I’m the girl’ argument when it comes to little spoon.”

“You pulled your shoulder in high-school,” you say, climbing into bed beside Steve. “That’s hardly life threatening.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “I could’ve been! For the batter! You ever been up to bat facing a pitcher with a torn rotator cuff?”

You hum in false sympathy and flip the switch on the bedside lamp, plunging you both into darkness. 

Steve’s bare back is warm against your chest, the heat of him seeping into your bones as you mold yourself to him. The edges of his hair—still wet from the shower you took together— tickle the bridge of your nose as you tuck into the nape of his neck. 

His hand finds your thigh, fingers slipping under the edge of your sleep shorts automatically, like he can’t get enough of you. And eventually, you give in, draping an arm over him and pressing your legs up to his. 

The heat kicks on, the quiet hum filling the companionable silence between you. 

“I didn’t even get to give you your present,” you whisper into the dark. “I had this whole plan to get you back, and then, well…” Your hand trails down his stomach suggestively, his chest hair brushing your palm. 

His back rises and falls under your cheek as he laughs softly. Then he shifts and turns to face you. You can’t see him in the dark, but you know he’s looking at you. 

“Good thing Christmas is tomorrow, Ace,” Steve says.

His breath fans over your forehead as he leans in to kiss you. You tip your face up, but he misses your mouth, his lips landing on your hairline instead. You both laugh. You expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He just trails his lips down your face, kissing your eye, your cheek, then finally, your lips, lingering there for a sweet moment before whispering, “Because I have one for you, too.”

“Oh good,” you sigh. “The Grinch took that gift earlier, you know. Stole it right from under the tree in front of me! Can you believe that?”

Steve shrugs under your hands. “Sounds like you shouldn’t have been so naughty this close to Christmas if you ask me.”

“Oh, really?” You lean in close to purr suggestively in his ear. “Thought I was a good girl.”

He makes a low sound in his chest and the next thing you know, your knuckles knock into the headboard as he pins your wrists to the pillow, his chest pressing you into the mattress. 

“Careful,” he warns, a smile in his voice. “You think you know everything about me, but you no nothing when it comes to my stamina.”

“Says the man who came in his underwe--aha, okay, okay!

His fingers slip free from your shirt, releasing his hold on your nipple. You giggle, wiggling under him, brain fuzzy and body sated. 

He only lets you go after a warm, sloppy kiss that’s all tongue and has you both writhing into each other, still unable to get enough. 

When he finally lies back down, you lace your fingers with his and press your lips to his shoulder blade, perfectly content to be his big spoon for the rest of eternity—as long as he lets you sleep beside him just like this every night. 

You’re eyelids are just drifting shut when he whispers into the dark. 

“Hey.”

You squeeze his fingers. “Hi.”

“I love you.”

Your breath hitches, heart skipping a beat. You’ll never get tired of hearing that. Your throat tightens, but the words forge ahead anyway, flowing from somewhere else inside you. 

“I love you too.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Okay.”

“I just wanted to hear it.”

You smile against his skin. “I know.”

─── ✻ ───

a/n: I can't believe we only have one chapter left after this!!! Okay, and I'm so in love with Anya, btw.

browse my steve masterlist ✻ go to landing page or read next chapter

Sam nods eagerly, tongue peeking out between his lips as he scuffs a little boot into the snow and lifts the bat over his shoulder. 

You’re punishing yourself, alright. And you deserve it. How could you let something so good just…go? If only you were as selfish as everyone here thinks you are. 

 A voice interrupts your spiraling thoughts. 

“I believe, you know.”

You don’t turn around. “Believe what, Dad?”

He chuckles, clearly amused by your misery. “That you’re meant to be.”

He steps up beside you, hands tucked in his jean pockets. It’s rare to see Ed without a book in hand, or his writing glasses perched on his nose. The soft gray light filters in through the frosted window, catching in his dark curls and highlight the silver woven through them. 

You sigh. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s leaving and I…I can’t stop him.”

“Go with him, then.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. If only it were.

You both watch in silence as Steve kicks a leg up and throws the ball. It meets Sam’s bat with a crisp crack. Sam tears away toward the rock they obviously assigned as first base while Steve scrambles for the white ball in the snow, shouting at him to keep running. 

“You know,” Dad muses. “I’ve never seen you finish a book?”

You blink. “What? I’ve finished tons of books…”

“When you were little, and I read you bedtime stories, you would always ask me to read the happy ending first. Do you remember that?”

You shake your head numbly, eyes fixed on Steve’s red jacket as he winds up to pitch again. 

“As you grew up, you left books all over the house. Dust collecting on the covers, a bookmark tucked about two-thirds of the way through. Always right before the climax, in that sweet spot where everything is good but not quite satisfactory.” He sighs softly. “And I think...I’m starting to see why.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “You wouldn’t understand—”

“Oh, why?” He says lightly, but there’s something sad in his voice that tugs at your heart. “Because I write romance and smut, I couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of relationships?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just—” you huff out a breath. “Why not write a story where everybody’s happy for once? Why do things always have to go to shit?” 

“Because happiness that’s never tested isn’t satisfying,” he says. “It’s in the hard parts that the characters get the chance to grow. The breaking is where a story earns its happy ending.”

“But, I don’t want to break things,” you whisper. “I want them to stay good, because this shit? It’s killing me.” You gesture toward the space between you and Steve. It’s only about a hundred feet, but it feels like a hundred miles. Uncle Rick joins the boys outside. He clasps Steve’s hand in greeting, a smile twitching under his mustache, and they fall into easy conversation, though you can’t make out their words. 

“Have I ever told you about the time your mother and I broke up?” Dad asks. 

What? You whip your head towards him. “No! You broke up?” 

There’s no way. It’s always been Ed and Kristy. The childhood sweethearts. Practically inseparable. 

“We did. Things were great all through high-school. Kristy was this brilliant, relentless, incandescent creature, and I wondered every day what the hell she was doing with me—a nerdy, band-obsessed geek with way too many notebooks. Then junior year rolled around. She went on a trip with her parents to visit colleges, and when she came back, she was…different. There was a world waiting for her out there, one neither of us had touched yet, and I could feel it pulling at her. We were just so young, you know.” 

You nod along, unable to explain the rock forming in your stomach.

“We loved each other,” he continues. “But what is true love without being tested? We’d grown up together, wrapped around each other like vines. I tried to hold on harder, because I was afraid of losing her, but my leaves started blocking the sun, and she was withering right in my arms. I realized if I loved her the way I claimed to, I had to risk being the one she didn’t home to. So, I ended it.” His mouth curves faintly at the memory. “It was the hardest thing I ever did.”

Your nose burns. “Why did you get back together?”

He chuckles. “We were young. We took our separate roads that summer, and then at college, they merged together again. And because we risked it, we got to choose each other for real.”

“Dad,” you whisper, tears scratching your throat. “I fucked up. Steve is…”

You trail off, unable to put words to what you’re feeling. Luckily, Dad is a novelist. 

“Your lighthouse,” he finishes for you. “The voice you reach for in the dark? Your secret keeper? Your lover who knows your body like it’s the back of their hand? The pair of eyes you search for first in a crowded room?” 

You nod, frustration and desperation twisting in your gut.

Dad rests a steady hand on your shoulder. The world beyond the icy glass pane blurs.

“It’s time to take the bookmark out, honey,” he says softly. “Give your story a chance to finish. You either turn the page…or you live with what could’ve been.”

─── ✻ ───

The click of the cottage’s front door is the loudest sound you’ve heard since leaving Cole’s place. 

You spent the entire two-mile walk shivering in silence beneath the trees, icicles dripping from bare branches and sending icy beads down the collar of your jacket, wishing you could just talk to Steve.

But every time you opened your mouth…you didn’t know what to say. 

Steve insisted on saying goodbye to your entire family, so you stood in the doorway, face flaming, as he shook your dad’s hand, offered a regretfully short exchange with Dallas, and even high-fived little Violet.

He joked and smiled, but it didn’t take a room full of empaths and writers for everyone could see the sadness underneath. He wanted to speak to your mom before he left, but she was nowhere to be found. 

Thank God. 

Steve nudges past you through the door and your shoulders brush, his touch pulling you back to the present. You watch, numb, as he makes his way through the house and up the stairs to assemble his things. 

As you trail after him, Dad’s words replay over and over in a relentless loop in your head. A passionate speech begins to form—full of promises and apologies—but the moment you step through the doorway, the sight before you shrivels the words in your mouth. 

Steve’s standing at the edge of your bed, packing his bag. 

He’s really leaving. 

The worst part is, if you begged to go with him, he would let you. By now, it’s obvious Steve would do anything for you. 

You have to give him this choice. 

You stand there while he tosses things haphazardly into his luggage, hesitating over Grandpap’s worn story hat before carefully tucking it inside his bag. 

Crystal strides into the room, her paws way too loud for the silence, and curls around his leg, tail vibrating. He bends to scratch behind her ears, then boops her once on the nose before lifting up his zipped bag. A second later, he’s standing in front of you, his hair brushing his brow as he meets your gaze. 

You feel torn for all of two seconds before you remember the snow storm coming. If you don’t want him caught in it, he needs to leave now.

You step aside. 

Downstairs, on the way to the front door, Steve pauses at the Christmas tree. He picks up the light blue present stashed behind the others—the one with your name scrawled across it in Sharpie. 

“Hey, that’s mine,” you tease as he slips it into his pocket. The joking tone falls flat. You sound miserable, actually. Exhausted. “You can’t just…steal back Christmas presents. That’s like…totally a grinch move, Steve.”

The wooden floor creaks as he steps closer to you. You swallow back your tears and look up at him, at the way his brown eyes catch the glow of the Christmas lights. His mouth tilts in a soft, sad smile. 

If he asks you to go with him, you’ll go. And he knows that. All he has to do is ask. 

You search his face for something. Anything. But he’s just standing there, all soft hair and warm breath. His eyes drop to your lips, and you sway toward him every so slightly, offering an invitation that feels foreign between you.

How do you crumble the bricks of everything left unsaid in the cold space between his chest and yours? Dad helped you realize you have to stop running…but what do you do when you finally stop?

This is uncharted territory, and there’s just one person you want to talk to about it. And he’s standing right in front of you, holding a bag and his keys. 

“Bye, Ace,” he says, brushing past you. 

You stand there—just an empty shell of a person—until the door clicks shut behind him. Only then do you move to the window, your heart thrashing helplessly into your chest as you watch his taillights disappear into the fading light. 

─── ✻ ───

The fireplace is empty, but you find yourself staring into the pile of ash anyway. Like, if you looked for long enough, a stray ember would catch and a flame might somehow return.

You haven’t moved from your seat on the couch in the five minutes since Steve walked out. Have you been breathing? Maybe that’s why your chest is tight. Have you even blinked? Maybe that’s why your eyes burn—

The front door clicks.

You whip toward it, heart hammering, half expecting to see Steve standing there.

But no. 

Mom stands in the doorway, instead. She’s breathing hard under her mint green coat, blonde hair plastered to her forehead. 

You stand suddenly. “Is everything okay?”

She waves a hand in the air. “Yes, honey. Sorry, I—Daddy told me you left, and I just wanted to…” she bends over, hands on her knees, letting out a breathless chuckle. “Give me a second.”

“Here.” You gesture to the couch. “Sit down, Mom. Jesus.”

She listens, plopping down dramatically. “So…he’s gone?”

“Yes, Mom.” Your voice is wooden. Hollow. “Steve left.”

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t there when ya’ll left ‘cause Jenna was having these Braxton Hicks contractions and I was helpin’—whew. Anyway, that boy’s got more nerve than a toothache. Leaving Christmas without even saying goodbye.”

Irritation spikes beneath your ribs and you turn away from her. “This is so not what I need right now.”

“Alright, hold on now,” she says. “Ed told me…he talked with you. I’m thinkin’ it’s my turn to do the same.”

You cross the room over to the kitchen, shaking your head. “I don’t need another lecture—”

“No, it’s not that!” she says quickly. “Just—hear me out. Okay?”

Your fingers curl into the metal handle of the tea kettle as you fill it at the sink. Giving her your full attention feels exhausting, but you’re too numb to argue. 

Mom sighs. “It’s been brought to my attention that I’ve been a bitch.”

Looking down into the sink only fills your head with visions of Steve crouched beneath it, rag hanging out of his back pocket, gently prodding the pipes into working again. So you look out the window instead.

That’s not any better, though, because it faces the front of the house, and all you can picture is the glint of the fading sun on his maroon car as it disappeared down the road. 

Water overflows from the kettle, splashing into the sink. You scrub a hand down your face, shut off the faucet, and turn to set the kettle on the stove. “Okay, we don’t need to do this. This isn’t—”

“I know how you feel,” Mom says.

You brace your hands on the counter and stare down at the warming tea kettle, unseeing.  

How could she possibly say that? 

She seems to take your silence as permission to continue. 

“Growing up, my example of love shaped the way I thought it should look. Pawpaw and Nan, they fought hard. And made up even harder. They got a…fierce sort of love.” She sighs. “That wasn’t your Daddy and I. Loving him felt like sittin’ next to a quiet creek in the summertime. Nothing wild happened. And while I loved that stability at first, I began to question it for what it was.”

The coil on the stove starts to glow red beneath the kettle, warming your cheeks as you listen. 

“I was young. And stupid.” She laughs softly. “You know me. Free spirit and all. That summer before we broke up, I’d built this whole story up in my head of exactly how we’d end up. Me, resentful, caged in some residential townhouse with a cramped backyard and too many kids. Ed, miserable, stuck in some nice-guy-nine-to-five, never chasing his dreams of becoming an author.”

Her words press somewhere deep in your chest, like an internal bruise. You turn and lean back against the counter. Her eyes seek yours from the couch, earnest and rimmed red. 

“I thought I knew everything,” she says, gesturing vaguely around the room as if she means the whole past and future. “What he needed. What I wanted. Where we’d end up for sure. Bottom line is, I was wrong. And apparently, I haven’t learned a damn thing because I’m still doing the same thing to my daughter.”

You sigh and push yourself off the counter, the fight leaching out of your bone at her words. She sniffs quietly as you collapse on the couch beside her. 

“I don’t know what to do, Mom,” you groan. “It’s all fucked up.”

She brushes a hand over your hair. “All these authors in the family. They really make a sweet, syrupy dish out of love stories, don’t they?” 

You let out a weak laugh and swipe at a tear, but she catches it before you can. If only she know how much you’ve echoed that exact sentiment in your mind the last few days. 

“This is the real deal, sweetie,” she says, shifting closer and cupping your cheek. “You and I don’t love like them. We’re fighters. When your dad and I saw each other for the first time at college after those months apart, I knew I’d never love anyone the way I loved him. I’d spent the entire summer miserable without him, and when I pictured the rest of my life without that man—so help me God—I was going to get him back. So, I did. I fought for him. And he let me. I saw that same fire in you today. I see the way you love that gorgeous Harrington boy.”

You nod, throat tight. You do love him. Fiercely. Ravishingly. Achingly. Desperately so. “He is gorgeous, isn’t he?”

You laugh together and she holds you tighter, tears spilling down both your faces now.

A minute passes in companionable silence. The tension drains away, replaced by a quiet sort of vulnerability only a mother and daughter understand. 

“Banks?” You ask.

“He and I might’ve had a little chat up on the deck while you and Steve were…breaking up?”

You shrug. “I don’t even know what the hell we’re doing anymore. I’m sorry we lied to you. It’s just—”

She waves a hand dismissing your unfinished sentence. “Honey, you think I bought that for a second? I knew the moment you walked through that door holding his hand like it might electrocute you.”

You let out a watery laugh. God, you miss holding his hand. 

She smooths a hand over your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “You know…I think you’re the bees knees, right?”

You cringe and swat her hand away. 

“No, I do!” She insists, smiling. “And baby, if I’ve ever made you feel less than that, I’m sorry. I can be hard on myself sometimes, and I see so much of myself in you.”

“It’s not just you, Mom,” you sigh. “I’ve let a lot of people dictate how I see myself. I care too much about being good enough for good things. And I’ve never felt like I’ve earned Steve Harrington. Never.”

She turns your chin to meet your gaze. “Honey, love is given. Not earned. It’s a gift. And if you get the chance to receive it, you cherish it. You recognize it for the rarity it is. You grow it. You nurture it, and you give it back.” She gestures toward the driveway. “And you certainly don’t let it walk out that door.” 

Something shifts in your chest, like a knot loosening somewhere.

Dad helped you realize you have the power to fix this. And Mom just gave you the instructions. 

And this time, you won’t let him get away again. 

You turn toward Mom, frantic. “He can’t be that far away, right? He just left.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s my girl! Go get him.”

You spring off the couch and launch yourself across the room, skidding to a stop in front of the staircase before hauling your ass up to throw clothes into a bag as fast as possible. In your rush, you almost forget Steve’s present, but you shove it into your bag with your things just before careening back down the stairs.

By the time you make it back to the kitchen, completely and totally out of breath, the tea kettle is shrieking.

Mom rushes to turn off the stove, dangling a pair of keys in your face. “Our car’s still at Nan’s, but here—take the Cadillac. And listen, there’s a storm coming, so you need to go to the Ivory. Hurry! I’ll tell Anya and tell her you’re both coming.”

She grabs you as you pass, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before practically shoving you toward the door. 

You shoulder your bag and step outside, grimacing up at the darkening sky. Inside the car, you hiss against the bite of the cold leather. The engine sputters, struggling in the cold, and you twist the key harder. 

“Please, please, please,” you mutter under your breath. 

The engine roars to life, and relief spreads through your stomach like hot chocolate. Maybe Steve’s onto something with the whole talking-to-cars-because-they-can-hear-you thing. 

As you buckle up, a thought hits you. What if he rejects you? What if this is all too fucked up to fix? 

Well, then you’re just going to have to play every card you have to get him back. 

─── ✻ ───

STEVE

Stupid fucking radio. 

I smack the dash with an open palm, begging the tangled mess of wires inside to cooperate. It’s a tried and true method. But, of course it fails me now. 

Guess today’s just my lucky day. 

Giving up, I return my eyes to the empty highway ahead. Snowbanks line both sides of the road, hardening into jagged edges as the sky darkens and the temperature plummets. 

I take a long drag from the cigarette between my fingers. God, it’s been awhile. The smoke fills my lungs, and I welcome the burn.

Can’t believe I’m fucking smoking in my car. And it’s all her fault, too. 

I crack the window another inch. Freezing wind rushes in with a shrill whistle, wrecking my hair in the process, but I’m fresh out of fucks to give. The first snowflakes of the storm hit my windshield, skittering up the glass before melting at the top. 

I take another long pull and let the smoke linger in my lungs for a second before exhaling slowly. It does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. 

Usually the open road fixes it. 

Not today. 

I miss her. And I’m not even five fucking miles away yet. 

I prop my elbow on the window and rake a hand through my hair. Bad idea. The motion triggers a dangerous memory. Her lancing her fingers through it instead, tugging gently while I kissed her soft skin and circled her clit with my tongue just right. 

I’m not crazy. I know she wants me too. 

I should’ve known she wasn’t ready. 

But I just thought—

You thought, what, Steve? That you could show her how could you could be together? Great plan. Phenomenal, really. Good job blowing everything up. 

My hand drops back to the steering wheel, one hand draped lazily over the top. She hates it when I drive this way. Makes her nervous. Between that, the third person thing, and the pack of Marlboro lights I got from the gas station, I’m a regular rule breaker where Ace is concerned. 

The small act of rebellion doesn’t make me smile. Instead, I just glance over at the empty passenger seat, wishing she was here to tease me about it all. Never thought I’d be wishing for a lecture, but I’d do anything to hear her go on about the dangerous of smoking right now. About how she wants me to live a long, healthy live with her. 

But I can only quit one thing at a time. 

I’m really no better than her douchebag exes—leaving her behind in the car we drove together here in, making her figure out her own way home. All that talk about wanting to show her what it’s like to be with a good guy? What was I fucking thinking? 

Who are we kidding, I’m a shitty boyfriend. Come to think of it, I’m not really good at anything, to be honest. 

Maybe fixing cars. Kind of. And, turns out I’m actually a pretty damn good babysitter. Sam really hit it out of the park there today with just a couple baseball tips. 

My conversation with Rick surfaces in my mind again. It was a solid offer. I just wish I could talk to her about it. 

About everything. 

Every single member of her family seemed to think I was perfect for her. That we were perfect for each other. 

But the real truth is, I don’t fucking care. 

I just know I love her. I know I want to be with her…and I’m driving away from her right now. 

What is wrong with me?

My ringtone interrupts my thoughts. I fumble for my phone and glance at the screen.

Ace. 

The red heart emoji beside her nickname was absolutely intentional, even though I’ve always told her it’s just a joke about the Ace of Hearts she slapped down on that poker table the first time I ever saw her.

I let it ring. I don’t really know why, but the thought of hearing her voice right now makes my throat tighten. I take another drag of smoke and stare out the windshield. The snow’s heavier now—falling in thick, heavy flakes that almost make it hard to see the way the lines on the pavement stretch and disappear under my tires. 

Knowing her, she’s probably just calling to apologize. Again. She doesn’t need to. Or maybe she wants to explain herself further. Argue with me some more bout why she thinks she thinks she’s some sort of demon walking this earth.

Oh my God, she’s so annoying. 

But, it could be none of that. 

It could be…that she changed her mind. 

That thought alone sends my pulse jumping into my throat, and I grab the phone on the last ring.

“Hi.”

“Pull over.” Her voice crackles through the phone speaker. She sounds relieved. 

I freeze mid-breath, cigarette hovering near my lips. “What?”

“You heard me. You’re at, what, exit forty-two?”

I stay silent for a moment, eyes on the road, mind racing. “…Thirty-nine.”

“Oh, that’s right. You follow the speed limit.”

I roll my eyes. So snarky. That attitude makes me want to kiss her stupid. “Yeah well, some of us don’t have a death wish, you know. I had to stop for gas—and, okay you know what? Ace, you—”

“Harrington,” she interrupts. “There’s a snow storm coming. Don’t be an idiot.”

Oh. Disappointment has me dragging in another lungful of smoke. She’s just thinking about my safety? 

“Steve?” she says, her voice gone soft. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“My friends own a bed and breakfast off exit forty-five, it’s called the Ivory Inn. If you really want to go home—if you need to—I’m not going to stop you. But if you want to…” She takes a breath. My knee jostles eagerly as I await her next words. “I guess what I’m saying is…I’d love a second chance.”

I laugh softly, running a hand over my face. She’s so formal. It’s cute. “Another chance, huh? For what?”

“I mean it.” The quiet assurance in her voice makes my stomach flip. “I’m done running.”

I hesitate, searching for something smart to say, something that won’t give away just how hard my pulse is pounding. How badly I’m hoping. 

“Steve,” she says softly. “I want to ask you.” 

The smoke leaves my lungs in a heavy exhale as the meaning behind her words hits me like a truck. Suddenly, I’m back on that snowy hill outside Cole’s cabin, practically begging her to ask me—because I so badly want to tell her that I love her. 

And now, she wants to hear it.

I don’t know what changed, but I know her. The leather seat squeaks as I lean forward, eyes darting to the exit signs up ahead. 

“Yeah,” I say, already easing into the right lane. “Yeah, okay. Exit forty-five. See you there.”

─── ✻ ───

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Naturally, stealing the tree has become an annual production. They even wear ski masks and bring a lock-picking kit, although you have no idea why, because it’s not like their identity is a secret and the door is always unlocked. But it’s part of the tradition. 

Then, they haul it over here to Cole’s place and eagerly reduce it to nothing more than a pile of ash while the whole family looks on. 

Because that’s definitely what normal people do.

“It’s even bigger than last year’s!” Uncle Cole yells over the crackles and pops of the fire.

Pawpaw Ben smiles proudly into the roaring blaze and takes another swig of his beer. “Damn right.”

You used to think your grandfather chose the biggest and best of the lot to go in your favorite room of his house as a gift to his family. But now, you have to consider the very real possibility that your blood relative is a secret arsonist who gets a sort of sick thrill in watching the flames of the fruits of his labor reach as high as physically possible. 

“Guess you can take the man out of Texas,” you mutter to Steve. “…or however that saying goes.”

“Damn right,” Steve says around the rim of his drink with a grin.

Behind you, Cole’s hand-built log cabin sits proudly on top of the hill. It’s big enough to hold his wife, two twin boys, (and soon-to-be third baby), sturdy enough to withstand the cold winters of Indiana, and homey enough to charm the pants off any guest.

Most of your family members have joined in on this arsonist daydream at some point—watching briefly from the wraparound second-story deck long enough to get a lungful of piney smoke before scurrying back indoors. 

Even with the wam sun slowly melting the banks surrounding tree trunks and tires, the snow still stretches like a blanket in every direction on Uncle Cole’s land. It’s heavier in the woods on the horizon. You know this because you made the two-mile walk over here through that forest with your family. 

Steve pulled Sam in the sled— at Sam’s insistence — and laughed and joked easily with your parents the whole way. As if he didn’t make you come all over his face last night, and give you the first orgasm a partner had ever given you. Hell, the best orgasm you’d ever had, period. Yeah, you’ve been unable to stop thinking about it ever since. 

You risk another peek over at Steve. The hair at his nape brushes the collar of his vintage red jacket. One hand is wrapped around a red Solo cup, and the other is shoved in his pocket. 

His easygoing posture sort of drives you crazy. It’s almost as if he doesn’t remember what that vibrator started last night, or waking up in bed with you this morning—a tangle of warm limbs and shallow breaths. Was he truly still asleep when you burrowed into his chest in the soft morning light, breathing him in and begging this secret glimpse of heaven to last just a little longer? 

You stayed like that a long time. Long enough to feel your heartbeat match his, and for some reason, the bridge of your nose prickled with unshed tears. 

Your eyes hadn’t even fully opened yet before his lips found your shoulder. Your neck. Your ear. 

Your jaw. 

One fraction of a turn of your head and your lips would’ve met his. 

Your heart sped up as he pulled you in closer, mouth hovering just over yours. You didn’t open your eyes, too afraid of what you’d find in his, but his hair tickled your cheek and you smiled softly. 

Suddenly, with the force of a lightning strike, a realization hit you square in the chest.

This is real. 

You really were about to kiss your best friend for exactly the second time in your life because somewhere along the way, you almost forgot why you shouldn’t. 

The excuses were so quiet you couldn’t hear them as you tilted your chin up and—

And that’s when Sam’s little knocks on your door shattered the moment. “Harry? You awake?”

Reality came crashing down, and you opened your eyes to find that the sun had gone behind a cloud, turning your bedroom gray. 

You stare unseeing into the flames, breathing in the smell of lighter fluid and Fraser fir to ground yourself in this moment.  

What would happen if you actually gave this a shot?

Best case scenario, you try to keep this relationship going for longer than any of your others have lasted. Things might go great while you finish up school. Amazing, even. But then comes graduation in just a few short months. After that, you’ll move back home to work here in town, and he’ll find a stable, safe office job somewhere he can drive his car along the coast in the summer.

You’ll both swear to keep up with your daily phone calls for the first few weeks. Maybe months. And then his replies will shorten one day for no reason at all, and you’ll overthink it, poring over every text you’ve sent over the last twenty-four hours.

Or you’ll get swamped with your new job and miss one-too-many of his calls during important meetings, and then it’ll be nothing but apology voice notes on the weekend after you realize you haven’t spoken in days. 

Promises to try harder. To be better. 

Maybe you’ll fly out there and he’ll take you to his favorite bar, and there’ll be a waitress who smiles and greets him by name, and you’ll think to yourself, why does she have to be so fucking pretty? 

Then come the FaceTime calls—the ones you’ve both been meticulously planning between your schedules, because neither one of you has enough PTO or free time to fly out—and an unfamiliar face will appear in the background.

A friend. A roommate, perhaps. But when Steve looks up to share an inside joke with them that you don’t understand, your heart will splinter a little because you don’t even recognize their name. 

And then comes the day you dread. 

That quiet night when you’d open your apartment door to find Steve standing there like a lost puppy. The light gone from his eyes, his jacket smelling like cigarette smoke. You’d solemnly step aside to let him in and he’d just sit on your couch, looking up at you like he’s finally realized the truth. 

It would be a quiet sort of heartbreak: to sit across from him a year or two from now just to watch him rake a hand through his hair, cuss under his breath, and say without words, you were right. 

That’s why you cannot have Steve Harrington. 

He deserves a different path. A different girl. 

One who doesn’t pester him through an entire shift at the radio station with an endless stream of smoking stats until he finally quits, or thinks about him a little more before downing three martinis before a drive home.

Someone who would never leave him alone under the mistletoe because she’s scared to lose him.

Someone who doesn’t beg the boy who’s never even had a family to be a silent shield between her and hers. 

Someone who would’ve grabbed his face and dragged his mouth to hers for a second kiss that drunken night under the stars, instead of just staring up at him in that firelight and wishing she were brave enough.

He deserves a girl who takes more risks for the people she loves. 

You’re not her. 

You’re the wild child. The problem kid. A selfish sister who doesn’t come home enough.

The girlfriend who can’t even put on a stupid jersey and rearrange her work schedule to be there for her boyfriend at his big game. You’re the girl whose bedhead gets fixed by her own mother on the staircase, like you’re still fifteen and hopeless.

The partner who didn’t even notice her boyfriend’s eyes linger on her roommates ass, because honestly, you didn’t care enough to. 

You know your faults. And that’s part of what makes this all so heartbreaking. Because if you know yourself well enough to name your disadvantages, you have to use that knowledge to protect your best friend from getting hurt. 

“Told you, Ben!” Nan’s voice calls, yanking you from your internal spiral. You turn to see her leaning over the cabin’s deck far above. “The weather station’s saying a snowstorm’s coming tonight! My big toe never lies.”

Pawpaw Ben shields his eyes from the sun with one hand as he squints up at her. “Can’t predict the weather, sweetheart. Either we’ll have a storm, or we won’t. Simple as that.”

She rolls her eyes and flips him the bird before disappearing from the railing.  

“I don’t know why you still argue with her after all these years,” Cole chuckles. “Name one time she was wrong about a storm.”

Everyone knows Nan is a self-proclaimed weather woman. Growing up in south Texas, she caught an affinity for hopping in her pickup truck and taking off after tornadoes just for the thrill of it. She even considered going to school for meteorology. That is, until she met Pawpaw Ben in a dive bar and got knocked up on after their passionate one-night-stand.

Luckily, the two of them were obsessed with each other and it all worked out. 

Pawpaw shrugs. “Damn but it’s fun. She gets this fiery little look in her eyes and then later —”

“So, Harrington!” Cole interrupts before he can continue. “Heard you play a little poker?”

You snort. “If you mean play as in lose…sure, he does!”

Steve knocks your elbow with his. “Oh my—c’mon. That was one time!”

Even in the middle of your self-denial pity party, you can’t help but think how easily he has resumed the casual touches between you. He’s still acting like none of this is a big deal. Like nothing’s really changed. But it has, and you both know it.

That dreaded conversation hangs thick on the horizon. You can feel the air shift in preparation, the atmospheric pressure build, blooming into a headache at the back of your skull. 

There’s a storm coming, all right. 

You just hope it’s the kind that ends with snowflakes instead of watching the taillights of Steve’s car disappear into the night.

─── ✻ ───

The sliding glass door groans on its tracks as you step into the basement of the cabin.

Cole and Pawpaw barge ahead, chunks of snow falling from their boots onto the floor as they argue about how much the buy-in should cost this time. 

The smell of this basement transports you back in time.

It reminds you of dusty quilts, cold tile, stale crackers, and staying up way too late swapping scary stories with your cousins long after you were supposed to be asleep.  Laughter filters down the staircase as Cole and Pawpaw burst upstairs. You and Steve follow after them, and you’ve almost reached the wood banister when suddenly Steve catches your arm.

You turn, only to find him swinging open the door to the mudroom. Before you can protest, he pulls you inside, clicking the door shut behind you. 

You blink rapidly against the sudden darkness. “What the—”

“Hey—can you shut up for one second, Ace, and just listen, okay?” There’s something…vulnerable in his voice that makes your breath catch. “What do you say to a little wager? On the poker game.”

The soft thud of his hand hitting the door beside your head sends your pulse into overdrive. He leans over you, all soft hair and warm chest, smelling like the hairspray he swore he didn’t bring.

You wait for him to continue, but he’s hesitating for some reason. “I’m listening,” you murmur. 

“If you win,” he whispers, “you get to open my present a whole day early.”

You scoff lightly. Must be some present. “And if you win?”

“If I win…” His voice lifts an octave, like he’s whatever he’s about to say is trivial at best. “We stop pretending.” There’s a pause, like maybe he’s trying to distinguish your reaction in the darkness. “We make this thing real.”

You let out a short breath. “This thing?”

“Yeah.” A tense beat passes. You feel more than see his hand impatiently gesture between your bodies. “This. Us. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Is…your best friend asking you to be his girlfriend?

Shit, he’s so bad at it it’s almost endearing. Almost. 

“Tell me, Harrington,” you whisper, breath fanning over his cheek, “is this normally how you get girls to go out with you? Corner them in a closet and bribe them with a relationship if they lose a bet? Honestly, I kinda thought you had more game than that.”

“Well, I mean—” You can hear the smirk in his voice. “They didn’t exactly call me King Steve for nothing.” The outline of his head tilts in the dark. “So…what’s the verdict? Are you in?”

Something about this doesn’t feel…right. Maybe it’s the cautious, playful voice he’s using to mask how exposed he feels right now. He has to know you see right through it, right? If it were any other day, you’d call him on it. But right now you’re dizzy with the realization that Steve’s waiting for an answer. 

A real one. 

That conversation on the horizon is drawing closer. But you’re not doing this here. Not in a pitch black mudroom where you can’t see his eyes, not with these walls up between the two of you like you can’t admit what’s really happening right now.

God, you want him. So bad. You’d do anything to have him. You’re going to find a conceivable really in which you can safely fall into this —into him— without both your hearts breaking. 

You take a steadying breath. “Steve, I think we should talk about this more before—”

The door gives way. 

You trip backward, falling straight into a body behind you. 

“Oh my God!” Aunt Tiff exclaims, catching you by the arms before you hit the ground. Her eyes lift to Steve and she bursts out laughing. “Sorry, Ya’ll! If I’d known this room was occupied, I could’ve waited a minute to grab Jane’s snow boots.”

You scramble to stand, cheeks flaming. “We didn’t need a minute!”

Tiff hums and pats a very flustered Steve’s chest. “You’re right. A minute might be a little generous,  huh?”

Steve balks and slaps her hand away playfully. “Wow. So little faith in me?”

She laughs again, ecstatic that he caught her joke and chose to lean into it.“Go on, they’re all looking for you!” She shooes the two of you up the stairs. “They’re about to deal. Better check her sleeves, Steve. Wouldn’t want history repeating itself.”

She shoots you a wink before disappearing into the mudroom. As you climb the stairs, you can’t help but think how you wish your heart could be tucked away safe inside your sleeve like a pair of pocket aces. Because right now, it’s lying stripped and bare, worn right on it. 

And it aches. 

─── ✻ ───

“What is going on, Ace?” Steve groans, tossing his cards on the table and leaning back in his chair. “Seriously—somebody check her sleeves. I’m not kidding.”

You smirk, completely unapologetic as you rake the chips from the middle with one hand. You’re crammed around a small collapsible card table in the living room, family scattered everywhere—lounging on the couch, hovering behind chairs, filtering in and out of the tight space carrying various snacks and drinks.

Brielle’s sitting next to you, content to watch as Cole, Pawpaw and Steve empty their wallets into your waiting palm. Jenna stands behind her husband, Cole, peeking at his cards now and then and trying very hard to have a poker face. 

She’s failing. 

Thus, the winning. 

“That’s the third hand in a row,” Pawpaw Ben complains, chucking his cards and reaching into the cooler at your feet for another drink. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you muse. “Maybe you’ve just lost your magic touch.”

He tips his chin down to hide his smirk.“Wasn’t what you were sayin’ last night.”

The table erupts in loud — somewhat drunken— conspiratorial oooooh’s.

Cole reaches over to clap Steve on the back, Banks’ eyes shoot up to catch yours, and the joke even earns a chortle from Uncle Joel who’s busy wrestling his two-year-old Rory out of something that more resembles a giant marshmallow than a snowsuit.

A blush climbs your cheeks and you try to hide it by wrapping your lips around the rim of your second beer. 

Honestly, even with Jenna’s accidental cues, your winning streak might not survive because you’re brain is still down in that mudroom, replaying the way your best friend just asked you to stop pretending with him. 

All you can think about is the map of campus turning into a minefield if you and Steve don’t work out. The curtain of willow branches where you’ve spent hours studying with him, leaves brushing your shoulders every time you shifted closer. That table at the coffee shop down the street that’s always sticky no matter how many napkins you sacrifice to it.

That ancient streetlight outside the cafeteria that always flickers at night. You won’t ever be able to walk under it again. Not without remembering all the times you looked up at him, laughing on your way to grab food, the yellow glow blinking in and out around the outline of his hair and lashes.

Steve deals next. 

You gather your cards as they slide to you, and the second you lift them to your eyes your brain just…stops. You’re not holding an eight of spades and a queen of diamonds. Instead, you’re holding two potential heartbreaks in your palm. 

You either try to make it work, or you don’t. 

Which one is better for him?

You know the answer, you just don’t want to choose it. Because you’re selfish. And if you’re really being honest with yourself, are you ever going to be the kind of girl who doesn’t care when some pretty bar waitress knows him by name. 

Are you ever going to stop replaying the way he held your hand in the car, or how he can talk you down from a full spiral with that sweet, steady voice of his? Or stop thinking about the urgent, gentle way he went down on you? The desperate way he pinned you to your bed and somehow still acted like it was all for him?

Have you ever really been just friends? 

“Better not let a man like that go, girl.” Jenna says, eyes dragging over Steve like she’s appraising a prize stallion.

Right. Because he just talked about having sex with you in front of your family, and this time, it wasn’t even a lie. 

You snort and force your attention back down to your cards. “Jenna, it’s Jesus’ birthday. Try and tone down the lust, would you?”

“Lustin’ ain’t a sin,” Cole says, completely oblivious to the way his sweet wife is one blink away from purring at your gorgeous boyfriend. Fake boyfriend. “It’s what you do with it. The good Lord don’t respect a man who don’t take care of his woman and takes all the pleasure for himself.”

Steve points at Cole so hard he nearly knocks his own chair back. “Thank you! Finally, someone gets it—”

Your cheeks turn scarlet. “Steve!”

Brielle leans in, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Steve. “Anyone ever tell you you seem a little too good to be true, Steve?”

A blush climbs his neck as he drops his gaze to his cards. “Uh. I mean…no. Not really, I guess. I’m not—”

“It’s no secret our family’s got a reputation for shooting out of our league,” Cole chuckles, rearranging the cards in his meaty hand. “And we know it. I mean look at her.” He gestures up at Jenna. “She’s doin’ charity work being with me.”

Jenna scoffs and smacks his shoulder from her place behind his chair, but she’s smiling. 

Steve, however, is not smiling. 

He looks quietly between you and Cole and your stomach sinks. “I’m not…out of Ace’s league.”

Cole looks up at him and it might be your imagination, but the room seems a little too quiet. Your face feels hot. It shouldn’t be Steve’s job to defend you like that. 

“What?” Cole chuckles, glancing around the table. His eyes jump to you under his worn trucker hat. “I don’t mean anything by it. All I’m sayin’ is it’s just kind of a big jump for you, that’s all. Wasn’t there like a drug dealer you dated last? That’s right, what was his name again? I can’t—”

An ugly flare of anger sparks inside you and you smother it by lifting the bottle to your mouth.

“Don’t make her angry, now,” Pawpaw mutters. “She’ll take all our money.”

Aunt Amy notices your expression all the way from the other side of the room. “Oh, honey. It’s okay. It’s just…nice to not have to worry about you anymore, that’s all.”

Grandmom chimes in from the recliner by the tall windows, like this is all perfectly harmless conversation. “It’s just such a relief that you have someone like Steve, now.”

Steve shifts in his chair, cards forgotten, brows furrowed. He opens his mouth, like he’s about to step in again, but you cut him off before he can.

“Okay, I get it,” you snap. “I snuck out some, dated a few douchebags, and raised a little hell. But, c’mon. Like no one here in this room hasn’t?”

You catch Banks’ eyes from across the room. He’s laid out on the couch with a book, but he’s watching you quietly, like he sees right through you. And suddenly, more than anything, you’re just tired. 

“Whatever,” you wave a hand in the air dismissively and drain the last of your beer. “Let’s just play.”

Everyone’s eyes return to their tasks. Banks to his book. Grandmom to her writing. Amy and Brielle to their phones, Cole, Steve, and Pawpaw to their cards. But the room stays quiet enough to hear the distant clack of the pinball machines down the hall, and the kid’s muffled cheers. 

Outside, the sun disappears behind a cloud and the room dims. 

As if on cue, Mom rounds the corner into the living room.

“Well, what’s goin’ on in here?” She pauses in the doorway, puzzled. “Ya’ll look like Santa just got snowed in or something’.”

After a short silence, Brielle speaks up. “We were just talking about how great these two are together.”

Mom visibly brightens and strides over to your side. “Stepped up her game, hasn’t she? I’ve been telling her, she should’ve jumped on that Harrington train years ago—”

Your empty beer slams down on the table loud enough that even Pawpaw jumps. 

That’s it.

How dare they talk about you like that. Like everything you were before Steve was just a mistake, just a phase, just a problem that finally got fixed. As if you weren’t a whole person making the best choices you could with what you had. 

Sure, maybe you were a bit of a wild child. But who cares? 

The bottom line still sits there loud and clear. You’re not enough. 

“Alright, you can all stop talking about me like I’m one of your rough drafts.” You snap. “You think I’m some sort of angel because of him?” Your throat tightens, but you force the words out. “A wayward soul saved by dating my best friend? Well, you’re wrong.”

“Okay, yeah,” Steve says, looking very uncomfortable. “Listen, you didn’t want to meet me back in high school either, okay? I was—”

Frankly, you don’t really care to hear the rest of that statement. You don’t want to hear him rewrite himself into a villain just to make you feel better. Look better. Even if he means well. 

“We aren’t really together,” you blurt. 

You may as well have taken one of those rifles off the wall and fired it through the ceiling with the way the room stills. 

Jaws drop. Looks are exchanged. Steve’s gaze bores a hole into the side of your head, but you refuse to meet it. Even when your vision starts to blur with unshed tears, and your hands tremble, you can’t look at him.You stare down at your clenched fists instead. “I had to lie to all of you just to be able to see your faces this year.”

The chair screeches on the wood grain as you stand. You don’t even fully register you’re moving until you’re out of the room. You shove through the house on pure instinct, heart pounding, chest aching, gasping for fresh air. When you finally burst out, the cold wind stings your cheeks. It’s a welcome burn. 

Your feet carry you until you’re standing in front of the burning Christmas tree, staring into the flames, unseeing. 

A door slams behind you and you spin. Steve strides out of the basement, shrugging on his red jacket. Your forgotten green one is tucked under his arm.

Is he incapable of being so damn good? No. It’s just who he is. 

“What the hell was that, Ace?” He calls. “A little warning would’ve been—”

The snow crunches underfoot as he approaches, and when you turn back to face the fire, you hear his steps falter. 

The air seems to shift into something colder than the frigid wind that digs into your bones.

“Oh, okay. Cool,” Steve says. His voice is closer now, but you still can’t bring yourself to turn around. “Are we doin’ this now? Great. Let’s have it out.”

You exhale. “What are you talking about?”

But deep down, in your heart of hearts, you already know. You’re annoyed with your family and all their hypocritical ideas of perfection, but if you’re really honest with yourself…that’s not the only reason you asked Steve here for Christmas.

“Ace,” he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s a bitter, empty sound that makes you want to cocoon yourself in a warm, fuzzy blanket and never come out. “You can’t even look at me.”

He steps in front of you and your vision fills with a jacketed, broad chest that rises and falls with his quick breaths. Did he run after you?  You blink down as he shoves your coat into your hands impatiently. 

“Put that on,” he mutters. “Look at me. Please.”

When your eyes meet his, it feels like something in your chest gives way.

That lock of hair has fallen across his brow and you itch to brush it back. His lips part as his soft gaze searches your face for an answer. You watch the moment he finds it. 

“This isn’t really about them,” he whispers. “And I think we both know that.”

A helpless knot ties in the back of your throat. “I never should’ve asked you to come here.”

“No,” He says firmly, shaking his head. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared.”

“Steve, what are we doing?” You throw your hands out, exasperated. “On the drive here, you acted like this was no big deal. Remember? You agreed to the rules, and now it feels like you’re on a mission to break every single one!”

He scoffs. “When you first made those rules in the car, I was ecstatic. You wanna know why?” His eyes pin you in place and your stomach flips. “Because that meant you felt something. Like I did. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have cared to make them in the first place.” 

“Steve, please try to understand!” You look away just to dig your palms into your eye sockets. “This is so difficult—”

“Why is it difficult, Ace?” He exhales sharply and then his voice grows softer. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh yeah?” You tear your hands away to stare at him again. “Tell that to the guy in the mudroom who couldn’t even ask me to change the very nature of our relationship without making it seem like one big joke.”

He scrubs a hand down his face. “I was trying not to break your stupid rules, Ace! But God you make it so hard—”

“I only made them to protect you, Steve!”

“No.” He shakes his head again, jaw clenching. “You made them to protect yourself.”

The Christmas tree shifts in the pit sending up a cloud of hot embers. One of them catches on your jacket. You watch it flare and eat a black pinhole in to the fabric.

Why can’t he understand? Frustration catches hold deep inside your chest. 

“Okay, sure,” you say through the ache in your throat. “Let me just pretend I don’t care if I lose my best friend. Would that make things easier for you?”

His hand flies out, exasperated. “You think I’m not scared shitless too? The difference is I’m not letting it hold me back from being with the the person I—” He breaks off, eyes snapping toward the dark line of trees before whispering, “—not from you.”

─── ✻ ───

BANKS

The idiots are squabbling in front of the burning Christmas tree like two irritated, horny little squirrels.

Circling, chattering, chasing each other in short bursts. It would almost be cute if the whole thing wasn’t so fucking pitiful. 

I can’t hear everything they’re saying from up here, but I’m catching bits and pieces. Enough to confirm the painfully obvious plan they’ve had from the start. 

Too bad I didn’t get in on that betting war the rest of them had going. I could’ve won some serious cash. The second she stormed out of the poker game, Steve was out of his chair, jacket in hand, bounding after her. 

Everyone took one look at each other before immediately pulling out their wallets, arguing over who said what and when, and then it was all just a rush of elbows and shushing as the entire family clambered over each other on the way to the second-story deck to watch the show. 

I was the first one out. What can I say? I’m a sucker for drama. 

“Jesus!” Jenna exclaims from her place beside me. “They’ve got energy! What I wouldn’t give for a little of that right now.” She runs a hand down her round belly. At this point, we’ll be lucky if she doesn’t go into labor right now from all the commotion.

“They just need a good long fuckin’ to get all that out of their systems,” Nan says confidently.  

Aunt Tiff laughs “No, they haven’t had sex yet, I’m sure. If they had, they’d already be back in that mudroom by now. Fighting’s just a shit ton of foreplay for people who’ve fucked, we all know this.”

I nod. Common knowledge. 

“What’s this racket?” Granddad asks, stepping out onto the cold deck. “Louder out here than in the pinball room! The way everyone cleared out, you’d think there was a fire! Well—‘sides the obvious.”

The crispy Christmas tree shifts in the firepit down below, sending up a tower of embers as if on cue. 

“Cole, you’re such an idiot,” Uncle Joel sighs, scraping an irritated hand through his beard. “We all agreed to play their game, because that’s the best shot they had at making it all five days here.”

Cole scoffs in mild amusement. “Oh, look who’s invested now! Weren’t you the one who said we should just bust them that first night right after Steve finished with that bullshit first kiss story?”

“No, guys,” Brielle interjects. “I’ve been thinking that story might have been real, actually!”

Aunt Deb swings toward Brielle so fast her golden ringlets go flying. “What? Shit. I owe Rick ten bucks next time I see him.”

The sliding glass door groans and Ronan stumbles out. “Uh, what’s the weight capacity on this thing? And what the hell is going on—”

“They’ve been made, Ro!” Kristy interrupts, spilling past him and onto the deck, Ed in tow. She turns to me with wide, eager eyes, like she’s expecting me to hand her a bucket of popcorn. “Finally! What’d I miss?” 

I shake my head disapprovingly at her. I’m not indulging her after that fucked up display of control over her daughter. 

“Wait,” Ronan says, surveying the deck now holding the amount of people you might find on a football field. Maybe. I don’t know. Sports are more my boyfriend Lane’s thing. “You’re telling me they were faking it?”

A chorus of groans and ‘really’s?’ rise from the crowd. They’re loud enough that my eyes dart to the ground below, half-expecting them to hear us.

But no. They’re still up in each other’s faces, looking like they’re either about to launch into tectonic-plate-shifting-level-kiss or grab a flaming branch from the pit and light the other on fire. 

I genuinely don’t know which. 

Brielle scoffs, flipping her black braids over her shoulder. “Oh, c’mon, Dad! It was so obvious! The way she blushed every time he called himself her boyfriend? The way he nearly jumped out of his skin whenever she touched him. Anyone with eyes could’ve seen it.”

Ronan raises his hands in surrender. “Jesus! Okay! Just keep me in the loop next time?Christ!”

Ed sighs dreamily, resting his elbow on the deck railing. “Look at ‘em down there. Red and green against a backdrop of snow. Complete opposites on their own, and yet when put together, they compliment each other so perfectly.”

Kristy nibbles on a long pink fingernail. “I don’t know...they look...this could be bad.”

“This isn’t the end for them,” a voice says from the other end of the deck. 

Everyone spins in unison to find a completely unbothered Dallas.

He’s standing behind the grill wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK, tongs in hand as he slides a batch of what looks like his self-proclaimed world-famous ribs inside. “It’s the classic third act, ya’ll should know this. Their real relationship could never really begin anyway, not the way they were playing it.” 

Nan shrieks and runs over to greet him, kissing her youngest son on the cheek. “You sneak! When did you get in? And you knew about this? About them?” 

He slings one muscled arm around her slim shoulders. “Plane got in late last night. Didn’t want to bother anybody. And yeah, I’ve been hearing that Harrington name for years. Figured it was a ploy to get all you jerks off her back, you know how she is.”

Dallas is a bull rider down in Texas. A damn good one, especially for the ripe age of twenty-four, but that life puts him on the road a lot. This would’ve been his third Christmas he’d missed in a row. He blames his busy season every year, but I have a suspicion his aversion to home might be due to a certain ex-girlfriend who lives here. Or, as Brielle calls her: The One Who Got Away. 

I can almost hear Lane teasing me for keeping up with the juicy family gossip. As if he won’t be secretly thrilled to hear all about it on FaceTime later tonight. 

Everyone takes turns hugging Dallas, and when all the about time’s and so good to see you’s are said, we all turn our attention back to the situation at hand. 

“I say we drag ‘em over to horse pen and let ‘em fight it out,” Pawpaw Ben says. “Place a few more bets, Banks—bring the drinks. Forget a burnin’ tree, we’ll just do this every year.”

“I hope she keeps him,” a small voice says. The crowd parts enough to let nine-year-old Violet through. She grips the railing and stands on her tiptoes to peek over the edge. “He’s nice.”

Aunt Deb steps in behind her daughter, casting a suffocating wave of floral perfume over me. “Me too. Precious little idiots. Look at him, raking his hands through his hair like that. Gosh.”

“Look at her!” Brielle insists. “She’s nearly dug a trench with all that pacing!”

 They really don’t get it. 

All they see is a young couple playing a little game because they want to hide their feelings from each other for some reason or another.

But I recognize it. 

The fear. 

It stings my nose like the lungfuls of smoke billowing up from the fire pit, leaving a bitter aftertaste in the back of my mouth. 

Unlike everyone else here, I know what it’s like to stare into the eyes of the person you love and beg them not to love you back. Because it’s easier. Safer. But so much more heartbreaking long-term. 

Lucky for me, it all turned out great. But for a time, Lane and I looked just like that couple down on the snow—head in their hands, hearts on their sleeves. 

Below, Steve turns away and the deck holds its breath. But he spins back around immediately with something else to say, and everyone takes a collective breath. At some point during the momentary disruption, Kristy makes her way over to stand beside me. 

“You have somethin’ to say to me, Banksy,” she says. “So say it.”

I sigh heavily. Fuck it. Guess I’m officially jumping the I’m just watching fence over to the I’m getting involved territory.  “You know what you’re doing. And you’ve got to stop.”

“What?” She balks. “Tryin’ to make my daughter happy?”

“You’re trying to control her. She’s keeping Steve at arm’s length because of you.”

“Me? That’s ridiculous.”

“Just—look at her.” I demand, pointing down. “She looks an awful lot like her mom when she’s scared. Don’t you think?”

She doesn’t respond, but I watch my words hit their mark as she tracks the red and green heartbroken lovers. After a moment she whispers,“Why is she so scared?”

Finally, she’s seeing it. 

“Because you are terrified for her. Your fear is leaching into her very bones, turning her into a corpse that wouldn’t recognize love if it came after her with a machete.”

She looks up at me. “You’ve got to stop watching The Walking Dead.”

I roll my eyes. 

“No, seriously, it’s a problem. I’m callin’ Lane, and puttin’ in a formal complaint.”

“Okay, whatever. We’re talking about your problems right now. Why is it always my job to be the therapist?”

I didn’t realize how quiet the deck had gotten until my words ring out over the small gathering. 

“Probably because you’re the only one here who’s ever actually been to therapy,” Dallas says nonchalantly, just flipping those ribs on the grill like it’s his life’s work. “And damn, it shows.” 

─── ✻ ───

If you ever get stabbed, do you know what you’re supposed to do? 

You’re supposed to leave the fucking thing in. Because if you remove the object, you’ll bleed out in a matter of minutes. 

Romance authors— they sell the idea of love like it’s some kind of drug. One hit of the stuff and you’re lost to the most magical, infinite high you could ever imagine. 

But to you, love feels like a dagger.

Slowly, painfully digging its way into your chest, cleaving through bone and flesh, piercing straight through your heart and pinning you into a permanent state of catastrophic organ failure. 

The love you have for Steve is lodged inside you. You can’t yank it out without dying. But with the way he’s looking at you right now, you’re not sure you won’t anyway. 

His cheeks are pink and windburned, his hair sticking up in every direction, thanks to his fingers raking through it every three seconds. His bottom lip is red and puffy from where he keeps catching it between his teeth in frustration. It’s an anxious habit he picked up after you made him quit smoking. He hasn’t done that in a long time. 

You’re not much better: a teeth-chattering, shaking, crying mess. 

You’re panicking. You know you are. But you can’t help it. This feels like walking a tightrope. One wrong step, and you’re plunging down to the death of a relationship with your best friend. 

For the past half hour, the two of you have been going in circles.

Figuratively, but also literally because there’s an actual circular path in the snow. A map of the turmoil between you. 

You want nothing more than to close the gap and step into his chest. To feel those warm arms warp around you like they did just this morning. The sweet timbre of his voice in your ear promising everything will be okay. 

You take a deep steadying breath. “I never intended to trap you in the middle of this…this insecurity of mine,” you say. “And for that I’m…I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. Me. Any of it.”

He takes a step forward, snow crunching under his boot. “I already told you, you don’t get to decide that.” His brown eyes catch yours. “You don’t get to write my life for me just because you’re freaked out about yours.”

You lick your dry lips and rack your brain for words that will make him understand without making him hate you. “I’m not trying to decide for you, Steve. I just know where we’ll end up and—”

“But you don’t.” He huffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe this is real. “Jesus—do you seriously think of yourself this way? Like…you’re gonna just ruin everything you touch?”

“Steve, I’m not doing this for myself!” you snap, exasperated and tired. “I’m doing this because I love you!”

The air shimmers between you, strung tight.

If this were the movies, you’d move at the same time into an earth-shattering kiss. Say fuck it, consequences be damned, and just crash into each other. 

But this isn’t the movies. This is real life. And it’s messy. And scary. And hard. 

“Is it supposed to hurt this much?” he asks. 

The wind picks up, hurling a cloud of smoke between you. It stings your eyes, but you keep looking at him through the fog, like if you let your lashes fall shut, he’ll just disappear. 

You love him, and you’re still hurting him. You’re pushing him toward a better life, and he’s still ending up black and blue. God, you can’t do anything right. 

For some reason, all you can think about right now is running to your dad. 

You want to bury yourself in the Lair, let the smell of ink stains and days-old coffee lull you into a fantasy state.

Bury your nose in one of his whimsical, scribbled dialogue sequences of stormy love confessions, to fill your head with happily ever afters and promises of people who are perfect for each other. Like maybe you could convince yourself that perhaps, it really will work out in the end. 

Instead, another tear tracks down your cheek. “I don’t know.”

The wind changes direction, and the smoke clears, revealing a beautiful, wrecked, heartbroken boy in front of you. The knife twists. 

“Ask me,” he whispers. 

“What?”

“Ask me if I love you.”

Your mouth falls open. “I can’t—I’m not…”

“You can.” His voice is quiet, but firm. “You just don’t wanna hear it.” He swallows, eyes flicking over your face like he’s bracing for something. “Or you already know what I’m gonna say and you’re…you’re scared to death of it.”

“Steve, please,” you whimper, torn between reaching out to hold him or retreating where you can’t hurt him. “I can’t lose you.”

“Ace, I can’t—” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Can’t keep doing this.”

Your stomach plummets. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying…” He looks past you for a second, like the words are up in the air somewhere. “I think I should go.”

Your heart stops. 

“What?” You choke. “Steve! Go? Now? Why?” 

You’re scrambling, pulse racing. Sweat breaks out on your lower back and you look around helplessly for anything to fix this. 

Steve’s eyes lift to yours, and they’re so brown and sad and heavy. 

His weight shifts like he might turn away and you automatically reach out and catch his hand. His fingers are cold. “Let’s just—just think about this first.”

He shakes his head. “Ace…come on. The whole thing’s over. The fake-boyfriend thing—whatever. I don’t…I don’t have a place here anymore.” 

You stare up at him, feeling the twist of your brow, the anguish in your eyes as he looks down at you. I don’t have a place here anymore.

So, this is what he does when he doesn’t feel wanted. What he’s done his whole life. He never lingered in the empty house deserted by his parents, did he? No. He hit the road. His only escape an empty highway and a crackling radio. It’s where he’s heading now unless you can make him understand. 

“Please,” you beg. “Don’t go. Let’s just…keep talking it out, okay?” But even as you say the words, you feel the emptiness in them.

You’re at a stalemate. He wants to risk everything, not understanding what it would cost you. And you’re trying not to risk him, to save what you have, not seeing how hopeless the safe choice makes him feel.

“Hey.” His gaze drops to the tears streaming down your cheeks and he softens. “Don’t—don’t do that. You’re not losing me.”

You struggle to swallow. “Then why does it feel like I am?”

A sad smile tugs at his mouth, and he raises his other hand to brush your cheek. “You’re just too scared to actually let me be yours. It’s okay, Ace. Really. It’s okay.”

You don’t know whether he’s trying to convince you…or himself. 

His hands fall away from you and your stomach sinks like a stone. 

“You can stay here, or you can come with me back to the cottage, but I gotta say bye to Sam first.” He gives a small, crooked shrug like he’s trying to regain the casual energy between you, but it falls short. “I told him I’d show him a couple things for next season. I’m not just gonna bail on him.”

Your heart cracks in your chest. He’s so good. 

He remembers your brother in the midst of his own hearbreak. He knows how much Sam adores him. And you hate yourself for not thinking about Sam at all until Steve said his name. 

You cast a desperate look around, but there’s no one in sight. The deck is empty, the curtains are closed in every window. Like maybe your family decided to give you privacy after all. 

Somehow, that fact alone makes this feel all too real.  

Steve pauses halfway up the hill, one knee slightly bent, breath fogging in the air. “And—shit. Look.” He swallows hard, eyes on the ground. “Just so we’re clear…you’re it for me, too. So if you ever decide you want to stop punishing yourself—” He gestures vaguely, looking helpless.

The sentence hangs unfinished in the air like a suspended snowflake. 

And then your best friend is walking away, smoothing a hand over the back of his head. You sob into the back of your hand and watch your hot tears drop down into the snow. By the time you finally find the strength to look up, all you see is a pit of smoking timber. 

Nothing left but ash. 

─── ✻ ───

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It’s not all that bad, though. 

A roaring fire crackles in the fireplace, sending shadows dancing over the room and winking in the dark windows. Your belly is comfortably full from the hearty stew Mom made for dinner. The ends of your hair drip onto your oversized T-shirt, still wet from your shower. Dad slouches on the leather sofa across from you, typing up a scene on his laptop. Mom’s lounging beside him in a soft throw, a western romance open in her hands. Sammy was put to bed hours ago. 

Steve’s sitting two cushions down from you, scrolling on his phone. Probably reviewing the latest basketball game stats from last week. You’re tucked into the far side of the couch, legs folded under you. Crystal’s curled up in your lap, purring in her sleep. 

The words blur in front of you again and you frown, starting over from the top. How long have you been reading this page for? You should probably turn it, just to keep up appearances.

It’s one of Dad’s newest novels, something he’s been begging you to read for forever, but you never seemed to have the time.

Well. You have the time now. 

You have all the time in the world. 

“Steve,” Dad’s voice cuts through the peaceful silence. “I nearly forgot. Kristy told me you fixed our sink.” The leather couch creaks as he shifts his weight, grabbing something from his back pocket. 

“No big deal,” Steve says easily, looking up from his phone. “Couple brackets were loose, that’s all. Took like, five minutes—”

He’s interrupted by Dad leaning across the coffee table and pressing two crisp hundreds into his hand. 

Steve shakes his head immediately, trying to pass the money back. “I—no, I can’t take this. Really. You don’t have to do that.”

“You can, and you will.” Dad ignores Steve’s outstretched hand and settles back on the couch. “As a thank you, son.”

Steve’s Adams apple bobs on a swallow. Firelight dances across a muscle in his jaw as he clenches it once. Then again. He glances around the room, like someone else might tell him what to do. But he doesn’t look at you. 

You tilt your head. Why is he—

“Okay,” Steve says after a beat, tucking the bills into his pocket. “Guess I’ll just…I’ll spend it on your daughter, then.”

“Good man,” Dad chuckles. His gaze drifts to the long empty space between Steve and you on the couch, before landing on you. “Honey, you don’t have to sit so far apart if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

You try to laugh it off, but your chortle comes out sounding nervous as hell. Steve’s eyes flick over to you, widening briefly. Play along.

You don’t have a good excuse, or really, anything that explains why you aren’t cuddled up next to your boyfriend on his side of the couch by the fire. But then, you look down at Crystal.

You gesture to the little white fur ball in your lap. “Kinda nap-trapped, here.”

It’s a lame excuse, but it seems to satisfy Dad. A small smirk plays on Mom’s lips. You try to catch her eye to ask what’s so funny, but she doesn’t look up from her book.

Dad’s gentle typing fills the room again. The heat hums. The fire crackles and pops. And for a moment, a deep nostalgic ache settles in your chest. 

This might be the first Christmas you’ve had in years that feels like…like Christmas. Like how it used to.

You stare into the fire, book forgotten. Every year after this, you’ll be sitting here on this leather couch alone. And Steve will be somewhere else. Probably living in the suburbs, with some blonde whose busy giving him his six kids. You can almost see it. The whole Harrington crew renting a van every summer, traveling the coast. Maybe learn how to surf of some shit. 

And you’ll be here. Thinking about him. Wondering where he is, and if he ever thinks about this Christmas too. For a split second, you entertain the thought of giving him the choice to make this real. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. 

God, this is all so complicated. And so heartbreakingly unfair. 

Mom yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, I’m exhausted. Late night last night.”

Dad nods absently, eyes still on his screen from behind his glasses. She turns to look at him. When he doesn’t glance up, you see her foot bump his discreetly under the blanket. 

“Oh! Right,” he says, “Late night. Yes. You can go to bed, honey. It’s alright.” 

The sound of his typing fills the room again. 

“We’ve got the annual Christmas tree lighting tomorrow,” Mom adds. “The whole family’s gonna be there. We should probably turn in.”

He finally looks at her long enough to slide his writing glasses off his nose. Something seems to click because he swiftly closes his laptop and moves to stand. Mom follows. 

“You know,” he says as he walks past the couch, “I’m really glad you’re here, Harrington. You’re a good man.”

Steve looks up at him, startled.

“You’re good for each other,” he continues, gesturing between the two of you. “And you make her really happy, Steve.”

Steve’s eyes drop to the ground, before lifting again. “I try to. Make her happy, you know.”

“I know.” Dad smiles softly. “We see it.”

Your throat tightens. 

“Night, you two,” Mom says, resting a hand gently on Steve’s head like he’s already a part of the family. 

“Goodnight,” Steve says, his voice warm. 

Dad drops a swift kiss to your temple as he brushes past, leaving behind the familiar scent of ink and coffee stains. 

The door to their bedroom clicks closed behind them and the noise rouses Crystal. She unfolds herself from your lap, stretches, then hops down and disappears down the hallway. Probably in search of her litter box. 

When you turn to look at Steve, he’s holding the cash out to you. 

 “Here,” he urges, when you don’t automatically reach for the money. 

You stare at him. “That’s your money. I’m not taking it.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not keeping it,” he says, shaking his head like the idea isn’t even up for debate. 

You squint at him in the firelight. “Why not?”

He throws a hand out toward the kitchen. “I was just doing the boyfriend thing,” he shrugs, eyes widening. “I shouldn’t get paid for that.”

You smile. “I say you should.”

He shakes his head, staring down at the bills. 

You scoot closer, but as you draw near you remember your rule. His knee rests barely an inch from yours. 

“If…if it really offends you Steve, I’ll take it,” you say gently. “It’s okay—”

“It doesn’t offend me,” he interrupts. 

“Okay…” You study his profile in the firelight. “He didn’t mean it in a transactional way, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think he was genuinely grateful.”

Steve just shakes his head again. Like you’re not getting it. 

But you want to. You ache to reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder.  To run your fingers through his hair and let his cheek fall into your palm. To give him the same kind of comforting, grounding touch he gave you the first night he was here.

Fuck your rules. 

Fuck them all to hell. 

But your hands stay in your lap. Where it’s safe. 

“What is it, Steve?” you ask softly. 

When he finally turns to look at you, there’s real emotion swimming in his brown eyes. 

“It’s just—” He exhales through his nose. “I don’t deserve this. I show up, pretend to be your boyfriend, and then he says all that about me like it’s real.” His jaw clenches. “Nobody’s ever…said stuff like that to me.” 

“What stuff, baby? I—”

Baby. You blink at him. He blinks back. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scoot back on the couch, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of his body beside yours. It’s not the pet name that makes your breath come faster. It’s how easily it slipped out. How unnervingly normal all this feels with him.

“What’d you just call me, Ace?” That teasing look is back, tugging on the corner of his lips.

“I-it’s all this pretending…” you stammer. “It’s gone to my head. Or something.”

He looks…for lack of a better word, thrilled. 

“Or something,” he mutters, smiling. His eyes drop to your lips and your stomach flips. “Ready to head to bed?”

The way he says it sounds so normal. Like it’s easy. Like you’ve done this a hundred times. Like you’re not standing one breath away from blowing everything up into pieces. 

Yeah. 

You are so fucked.

─── ✻ ───

Somehow, the two of you make it into bed without touching once.

It’s a miracle, really. But your bed is big enough that if you’re careful, you can lay side by side without an accidental brush.

Moonlight filters in through the curtains, spilling across the patterned quilt. You found your old blankets in the basement earlier and rushed to replace that irritatingly modern comforter Mom had up here. 

The silence is suffocating, like it always is. But this time, it’s pulled taut like a string just waiting to snap. You could cut the tension in this bed with a butter knife. 

Maybe Steve was right. This rule didn’t make anything easier. It just made your body more aware of every time he was near. Your eyes caught easily on his warm fingers, his knees, and broad shoulders, every time you were in his proximity today. So aware of everywhere he stepped in the house, so you didn’t run into him in another doorway. 

You actually did it. You made it the entire day without touching. So, why do you feel so achingly empty inside?

A sudden bright light spears through the darkness into your eyes and you wince. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Steve mutters beside you, turning off his phone screen again. “It’s at two percent. You got a charger in here?”

“Yeah. Top drawer of my nightstand.”

The second the words leave your mouth you realize your mistake. 

“Wait! Stop—I’ll get—”

But it’s too late. His hand is already in the drawer, and when he pulls it back out, there’s something in his hand.

“Oh ho ho,” he chuckles under his breath. “What do we have here?”

“Oh, God, Steve,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “Put it back.”

“Mmm,” he hums. “Yeah…don’t think so.” 

You completely forgot you brought that discreet bullet vibrator to the cottage last year. A quiet buzz fills the room and you resist the urge to turn your flaming cheeks into the pillow. 

“Well, would ya look at that,” he murmurs, “Still charged.”

“Give it—” you spring up and lunge for the toy, but he holds it out of reach. 

“No touching!” he tuts. “Remember?” 

His knees sink into the mattress as he leans back to avoid your hands. You glare at him but he just smirks down at you. The look is so boyish and charming, it sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach. 

When he’s apparently satisfied you won’t risk touching him to steal it away, his gaze drops to review the toy in agonizing detail. 

It’s small and blue, about the length of his finger. He turns it in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over the blunt end you press to your clit. 

You hold your breath, mind scrambling for a way to make him just drop the damn thing. 

“Wow,” he mutters, brows lifting as the vibrations hum against his palm. “That’s kinda…powerful for such a tiny— wait, how many settings does this thing have?” He clicks the button at the base. The vibration stutters into a staccato rhythm. He presses it again and again, cycling through the variety of patterns. “Jesus!” 

If you weren’t so mortified, it would be kind of amusing watching Steve Harrington stare down at a sex toy like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. Good thing he can’t sees the other ones you have back in your dorm, he’d be scarred for life. 

“Steve,” you plead. “Put it back. Please, just—put it back for the love of God!”

“Jeez, Ace,” he chuckles. “Why’re you so embarrassed? It’s just a vibrator.”

Just a vibrator. Yeah, and it’s just your best friend holding it in his big hand. Like he’s not thinking about how you press it to your clit late at night, trying desperately not to think about him while you do. 

Steve clears his throat, still looking at it. “I mean, I think it’s…cool. Great, even. I guess. I’m just—I’ve never had much experience with this kind of…machinery.”

You huff out a breathy laugh. “Leave it to you to make a bullet vibrator sound like a fucking excavator. Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like…you’ve never seen one before or something?”

He looks at you through his messy brown hair, suddenly shy. 

“I’ve seen ‘em, I just—” He swallows. “The girls I’ve been with…I always make them come, so…”

You stare at him. “Okay, but what—like—every time?”

He stares back at you, frowning slightly at your surprise. “What? Like it’s hard?”

Your mouth falls open. He looks genuinely confused. Brows drawn together, eyes soft, lip curled slightly. 

“So you just— how?” You shrug, head spinning. “With…what?”

His eyebrows furrow deeper and he tilts his head. “What are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?”

Your eyes catch like magnets, unable to separate. You’re very aware of the way both your chests rise and fall together with quickening breaths. 

You really shouldn’t be discussing this. But, you’re not touching. That was the rule. There’s no rule against…talking. 

Understanding dawns on his face, and his shoulders slump. 

“Okay—real question,” he says quietly. “Have any of your asshole exes ever actually gotten you off?”

You swallow hard and drop your gaze to the bed, too embarrassed by the pity in his eyes to answer. 

“Fuck, Ace,” he groans, tipping his head back and running a hand over his face. Moonlight spills over the hollow of his throat, and you have the traitorous thought of what it would feel like to run your tongue over it. “No wonder you hate sex.”

“Okay, see? This is exactly what I was saying last night!” you snap, scrambling backward on the mattress, your knees tangling up in the quilt. “How do you know I’m not the one who’s bad in bed?”

His eyes harden and he leans in. “Did they tell you that?”

No. Not outright. But, it has been implied that it was hard to…get you there. Like it was something about you. Something you couldn’t change. You open your mouth to answer, but no words come out. Because, deep down, you’ve always wondered if maybe they were right. How would you know any different?

“I can’t believe this,” Steve mutters, raking a hand through his hair. The vibrator still hums in his other palm, a steady constant rhythm now. “How long has it been? Since you’ve…you know.”

You scoff, cheeks flaming. ”I am perfectly capable of getting myself off, thank you very much.”

He levels you with a look. “Weeks? Months? How long are we talkin’?”

“Fuck you! Try hours—”

His eyes widen and you snap your mouth shut. 

Fuck. See? How does he always get you into these situations? 

“Today?” he asks eagerly. “When? Tell me.”

You scowl down at the rumpled sheets. “I’m not telling you shit.”

His hand twitches against the blanket, like he wants to reach for you, but stops himself. 

“It was in the shower, wasn’t it?” he breathes. “After dinner?”

The second your eyes snap to his you instantly regret it. He’s all breathy and gorgeous in the low light. His pupils are blown wide and he’s looking at you like you’re the last cigarette in the pack he had before you made him quit sophomore year.  

“Did you think about me?”

An exhale punches from your chest. Memories of the fantasies you entertained while the hot water rained down on you flash through your mind.

 Those hands on your tits, his fluttering pulse under your lips, his tongue on your clit. The moan that escaped his chest when you—

Suddenly, he leans in so fast you have to fall back on the bed to avoid touching him. But he just follows you down. His knees land on either side of your hips, one arm braced on the pillow beside your head. If you relaxed even an inch, your face would roll straight into his warm skin, so you strain to keep perfectly still.

“‘Cause, I did that too,” he whispers. “Last night. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart slams in your chest, a distant rush in your ears. Last night, when he stepped out of the bathroom in only a towel, he’d just jacked off to the thought of you—

His teeth catch his bottom lip. You almost throw out every rule right there, just to feel the pillowy softness of his mouth against yours. Heat coils tight deep in your core, aching with his proximity. 

“I’ve been so horny all fuckin’ day,” he rasps. 

You know how he feels. Your body craves his touch. After an entire day of thinking about nothing else, his hands on you would probably feel better than anything you’ve ever felt in your life. You could give in. You could ask him to touch you, and he would. The thought has your lips popping open, the words at the tip of your tongue. 

Oh. Wait. 

You see what he’s doing. None of this is real. 

You level his gaze. “You’re just trying to win the bet.” 

“No. I’m not.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not touching you. See?” 

He lifts up a little. The space reveals his other hand resting on the blankets beside you, the buzzing vibrator dwarfed in his palm. 

“Then what are you—” you start.

“Just…give this thing a little test drive for me, yeah?” he whispers. “I just wanna see what it can do.”

You eyes go wide. “Wh—”

“Just for a second,” he insists. “I’ll even do it over your sleep shorts. Look.”

He sits back on his knees over you, and your mouth waters. He’s still so tall like that. His broad chest stretches beneath his shirt, lashes brushing his cheeks as he looks down at your body beneath him.

“It’s not against the rules,” he murmurs, almost like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. 

You’re panting now. Warm, delicious heat pours off his body, and that familiar tug of desire twists deep in your hips. You can feel yourself getting wet in anticipation of the pleasure he’s promising.

Suddenly, an idea strikes like a match. 

He really seems to want this. Like, really want it. And maybe if you give in just a little, you can make him lose the bet. It’s only over your clothes. You can hold out long enough for him to crack first. Then, once he starts begging, you can rub the win in his face, roll over, and go to sleep. 

Good plan. 

Solid plan. 

You eyes meet and you give him the faintest of nods. He looks surprised, but he doesn’t question it. 

You reach down to take the toy, but he pulls it back just in time. 

“No,” he says firmly. “I want to do it.”

A laugh bubbles up in your chest despite yourself. He sounds like he did when you were lab partners in Biology freshman year, arguing over who has to handle the grossest parts of the assignment. 

You sit up to grab at it again, but your fingers accidentally brush his arm on the way.

“Hey—hey,” he chuckles. “No touching. Don’t make me pin your hands down. ‘Cause I will.”

Oh. Shit. Your mouth runs dry at the thought. 

“Let me put it on you,” he says, almost pleading. Not quite, though. “Just for a second.”

You hesitate, looking up at him. His hair is a mess, and he promptly rakes a hand through it, like the way you’re staring is enough to make him self-conscious or something.  You don’t even know why you’re considering this.

It’s a terrible, reckless, completely incorrigible idea. 

“C’mon Ace,” he whispers. “Where’s that little rule breaker? You know—that rebel side I keep hearing so much about these days.”

“Shut up,” you bite, but it comes out more like a breathy moan. 

His arm descends, slow and careful. Both of you watch as he lowers the vibrator between your legs, resting just above your sleep shorts. Your stomach flips and you resist the urge to squirm up into him.

Remember, you’re just doing it so you can win. He will give in.

“Hey,” he murmurs, dipping his chin to catch your eyes. “If you actually don’t want me to, I won’t.” 

The way he’s looking at you right now—all soft curiosity and sweet eyes—you want to give him anything he wants. You feel inexplicably safe here with him, right now. Known. Cherished. That stray strand of brown hair falls into his eyes but he makes no move to rake it back, waiting patiently for your response. And something about that look makes you give in completely. 

You don’t say anything. 

You just cant your hips up an inch, connecting with the toy hovering above your mound. The first kiss of vibration against your clit feels like lighting. 

A soft exhale escapes him, and he freezes, watching your hips move. You arch a little higher, and this time he applies a bit of pressure to the toy, meeting you there. You moan softly at the sensation,  and your head falls back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut.

“You can feel that?” he whispers. “Like—even through your clothes? That’s so hot, holy shit.”

Fabric rustles. You blink your eyes open again just in time to see him pull off his T-shirt. 

“Wha—what are you doing?” you gasp.

He looks at you, eyes wide, hair mussed. “You got a problem with this Ace? It’s not against your rules.”

He looks so good, you almost forget how to speak. His toned body straddles your hips, and the chest hair scattered across his pecs catches the soft light of the moon. You want to run your fingers through it, trace the lines of muscle, touch all of him. But you can’t. 

“Yeah, didn’t think so,” he mutters. 

God, you’ve never seen this side of him before. He’s always been a smartass, but this cocky, self-assured, sexy version of him is making you feel things you’ve never felt before.

The vibrator settles back on your clit and you sigh, tension winding tight inside you. This is dangerous game, and it’s starting to feel a lot like the one you played last night. But this time will be different. You won’t give in. He sure as hell will though, you’ll make sure of that. 

“Should I turn it up?” Steve asks, glancing down at the toy. “Change the setting? How do you like it?”

You can’t tell him how you normally do it. Because he’d take it as a set of instructions. And then—then you’d really be fucked. 

He studies your face in the dark, reading you. “Take your shorts off.”

“Wha—”

“Unless you want me to?” Steve shrugs. “But that would require, you know, me touching you. So.”

How is he so calm about all this? There’s a bulge straining against his sweatpants, so you know he’s not completely unaffected. You don’t know what comes over you, but the thought of getting him to crack, turning him into a desperate, moaning mess, sends your pleasure skyrocketing. Your Steve, begging? Yeah, you want to see that. Just once. 

But if you want to see him unravel, you’re going to have to start playing this game right. If you take your pants off, you’ll certainly have a better chance of driving him crazy. 

You look at him, hips arching into that vibrator pressed against your clothed clit. “Ask nicely.”

His eyes snap to yours. Then, he smirks like he knows what you’re doing but doesn’t even care. “Please?”

Your fingers fly to your waistband, pulling both your shorts down. He lifts the vibrator and takes over for you once the waistband hits mid-thigh, since he’s straddling you, and pulls your clothes the rest of the way off. 

His eyes fall to your newly bare hips. The cool air hits the slick coating your inner thighs and you bite your lip to keep from begging for his touch.

Okay. Maybe you didn’t exactly think this through. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in the moonlight and you’re about to bury your half naked self back under the blankets, when the vibrator finds your clit again. 

You moan softly, body relaxing instantly into the delicious feeling of the vibrations hitting you without anything in the way. 

He mutters something that sounds a lot like, so wet for me, but you’re not sure, because you’re a little distracted, trying to keep it together long enough for him to break.

When you risk a peek down at him, you’re thrilled to see his dark eyes filled with lust, pinned to your pussy. His hand clenches at his thigh, like he’s doing everything he can not to hold your hips down. The outline of his raging erection presses through his sweats. 

Your mouth waters at the sight. 

He shifts the vibrator slightly to the right, and you nearly groan at the wave of pleasure that cascades through you, winding you even tighter. 

“Like that?” he whispers. He sounds fucking wrecked. 

Your pussy clenches around nothing and he swears under his breath. He curses again as your hips swivel, catching on the toy at every upturn. Your slick coats it as it slides over you again, and you turn your head to moan into your pillow. 

“God, Ace,” he groans. “I can’t take this.”

“Y-you’re gonna l-lose.” You can barely get the words out as your hips jerk, desperate for more.

He exhales sharply. “You think I give a fuck?” he pants. “Let me touch you.”

Your brain short circuits. He was supposed to beg you to touch him, not beg you to let him touch you. A thought knocks loose in the back of your mind. Why did he make that bet with you in the first place? Steve’s competitive, sure. But losing this quickly—this willingly— isn’t like him at all. 

Did he agree to this with you just so you would eventually give in to each other? Because he wants you that badly?

“Please,” he begs. “Please. I just wanna make you feel g-good.”

Well, that does it. 

You’re nodding before your brain can catch up to your body. Steve Harrington begging? It’s everything you thought it would be. And more. Your overheating, nipples hard and straining against your tight T-shirt. 

Fuck it. What’s a little orgasm between friends anyway?

His hot palm lands on your stomach, fingers splayed along the edge of your sleep shirt. You arch into his hand and bite back a whimper at his touch. 

Finally. 

Instead of moving down like you expect, his hand glides upward. 

You watch him, curious. A soft smile touches his mouth and his eyes catalogue your expression.

When his fingers brush your cheek, a familiar sting hits the bridge of your nose. He got permission to touch you, and the first thing he does is cradle your face, thumb stroking over your skin, like he wants to memorize this moment. 

Memorize you. 

Your chest tightens. 

Then, his gaze returns to your body and his hand trails down again. The muscles in his back flex and he shifts lower on the bed, his shoulders nudging your legs further apart.  Before you can fully process this, his hair brushes your inner thighs. You expect him to lift the toy from your clit, but he bypasses it entirely. 

When his tongue licks your entrance, you nearly see stars. 

He moans against your pussy, his nose bumping the vibrator and sending a sharp jolt of need through you. His brows knit together as he tastes you, lashes fluttering shut. 

Are you having an out of body experience? Right now, your best friend is eating you out. And you’ve never felt anything like it. His free hand steadies your hips while he lavishes you with his warm wet mouth. 

He doesn’t hold back, either. 

He nips, sucks, and licks every inch of you. Not shy in the slightest as he gathers your slick in his mouth, quietly swallowing before going back for more. 

It’s indecent. Messy. And so obscenely hot.

“Steve—” you whimper, hands flying out to grab something. Anything. 

Without warning, he turns the toy off and tosses it on the bed. His big hands slide beneath your hips to palm your ass, lifting you higher so his tongue can sink deeper. 

“Holy shit, Ace,” he groans against you.“Taste so good.”

Then his tongue replaces the where the vibrator was on your clit, flicking and sucking in a pattern that has you utterly boneless in his grasp. One long finger dips into your entrance and you arch so hard you nearly spear yourself on the entire length all in one go. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs against you. 

You’re throbbing now, hips rocking into him, wordlessly begging him for more. And his body responds, hands squeezing your hips hard, and moaning like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. You pulse once around his finger and he immediately adds another. The stretch is so good, you feel so full just from his hand. 

The mattress shakes under you as his hips grind into it, rutting his hard dick into the sheets. You think about his cock in your hand last night, the way it leaked over your fingers. 

It’s so good your hands just fly everywhere—fisting the sheets, scrabbling at the headboard. He reaches out blindly until he finds your wrist, never slowing his pace on your clit, then slowly guides your hand down until your fingers tangle in his soft hair. 

When you rake your fingers through it and tug, he whimpers loudly against you, and you nearly come apart right there. 

You pull him closer, pressing your hips down into that wet heat. Ironic that you’re the one being eaten out, yet you’re the one having to shove your pussy into his mouth just to keep him quiet. 

You’re wrecked. Sweaty. Panting. Aching. 

You want to come so fucking badly. You want to let him bring you over the edge, feel him hum against you as your orgasm rocks through your core. 

But can you? 

A trickle of doubt creeps in, dampening your pleasure just slightly. 

“You don’t have to come, Ace,” he says, pulling back long enough to murmur against your inner thigh. “I’m not expecting anything.”

Something about him saying that eases the knot of anxiety in your chest and you relax into him again. He goes back to circling your clit, then pauses agin. “But the way you’re fucking shaking right now,” he adds, “I think you’re going to whether you want to or not.”

Cocky bastard. God, why do you love it so much, too?

“And you know why?” He pants. 

You glance down at him buried between your legs and your breath catches. “Why?”

“Because they didn’t know you,” he says softly, dropping an openmouthed kiss to your knee. “Not like I do.”

He doesn’t think your broken. Not for a second. And for some reason, you believe him.

When his fingers curl and press against that sweet spot inside you, your orgasm catches and drags you under. It washes over you in painfully blissful waves. Just when you think it’s over, his fingers pull another pulse from you, his mouth making you clench one more time. 

Finally it fades, and when you start to squirm, he releases you. 

His broad chest rises up over you, knees moving up to straddle you again. You blink up at him, watching as he wipes his face on the back of his hand. You should feel shy, but you don’t. You feel…good. So good it doesn’t make sense. 

His hand dips into his sweatpants, and you watch the way his fist moves over his cock beneath the fabric. The sight is so erotic, you eagerly tug his waistband lower to see all of it.

He’s hard and heavy in his hand, the tip pulsing angrily and leaking precum. He groans softly, watching you watch him. 

God, his voice. It makes you hot all over again. 

He reaches down and yanks your shirt up, pinning it right under your tits, giving himself a clear view of your hardened nipples through the fabric while he wraps his hand around his dick and tugs, head tipping back on another moan, obviously struggling to stay quiet. 

He’s not going to last long like this. Suddenly, you don’t want this moment to end. You want to feel him again, even if this is the last opportunity you have. 

Your hand flies up and slaps his away before replacing it greedily. He looks down at you, surprised, before desperation takes over and he’s bucking into your touch.

“Please—need you,” he groans. “Ace…”

It only takes a few strokes before his abs clench, and his hips stutter. He’s whimpers, muttering broken phrases like, don’t stop, and want this. 

You watch as his orgasm rolls through him and hot cum lands on your naked stomach, painting your skin in thick ropes. 

When he comes down from the high, he looks down at you. Both panting, staring at each other, your eyes drop to each other’s lips at the same time. He leans down like he might kiss you, but dips his chin at the last second as he remembers. 

The rules. 

He rakes a hand through his hair and rolls off you. A second later, he’s cleaning you up with a Kleenex from your nightstand before tossing it into the wastebasket near the bed. He even goes so far as to collect your discarded clothes from the floor. When he tries to help you put them back on, you brush him away, embarrassed, and pull them up yourself. 

You sink into the bed together, lying next to each other staring up at the ceiling. 

And this time, when your legs touch under the covers, neither of you pulls away. 

“Steve,” you whisper. “That was…incredible.”

“Yeah?” He sounds proud. 

“Yeah.” You arch into the bed, basking in the endorphin rush and the warm memory of his mouth between your legs. And then you sober, thinking about the future. “But it can’t…happen again.”

“Yeah. No. I know.”

The room settles around you as you both just lay there, pretending to go to sleep when all you can do is replay what just happened between you. 

You’ve almost managed to drift off when you hear his voice again. 

“Next time,” he murmurs low and certain, “I’m making you come twice.”

─── ✻ ───

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Something hard presses against your aching center and you gasp. Your hips move of their own accord, greedily grinding back against it. 

God, you need it.

You need it inside you so badly you can’t fucking think. 

A voice —familiar, and rough with sleep—murmurs something in your ear but you don’t know what he’s saying because that hand is moving again. Fingers drag over your fevered skin like you’re something worth treasuring. Worshipping. 

Loving. 

Your eyes snap open. 

Morning light spills across the wooden door of your bedroom. Birds chirp cheerfully outside. You’re at the cottage. 

Something warm and heavy rests over your middle. 

Steve’s arm. 

You freeze, heart pounding, suddenly aware of every place you’re touching. You’re tucked into his body, his broad chest pressed against your back. His long legs are drawn close, fitting perfectly against yours.

You must’ve been dreaming. Just your body’s reaction to the way you worked each other up last night with no release.

But your skin still feels too tight, stretched across your curves too sharply, like you need his hand to travel every inch of you to soothe the ache inside. But there’s also something about this that makes your throat tighten with something you can’t quite name.

Steve’s chest rises and falls with his soft breaths against your back, and every time he exhales, his breaths ghost over your ear. Your eyelids flutter shut again, even though they shouldn’t. 

You should get up. 

But the seconds tick by as you simply bask in the secret intimacy of the moment. How are you supposed to leave the warmest bed you’ve ever known?

The sleepy weight of his arm presses you into the mattress, and you find yourself sinking further into it, preening, arching into the touch.

“I said—” he mumbles. “Quit movin’”

Your eyes snap open. 

Oh, that was real. 

Somewhere between dreams and reality, the two of you reached for each other. Even in your sleep, your bodies wanted something. Needed each other. 

He senses the shift in you and pulls you closer, the backs of your thighs pressing harder into his legs, the nape of your neck brushing his sleep shirt. 

And there is it. That erection you felt in your ‘dream’, presses firmly against your lower back. 

Thanks to last night, you now know exactly what that feels like in your hand.

Okay. Time to get up. Maybe you can find some privacy in the shower and make yourself come quickly, just so you don’t jump his bones at some point today. 

But you’re so fucking worked up, all achy and pulsing. It would be so easy to ask him to take care of it for you. Just between friends. Friends can do that, right?

Right?

You sigh heavily. 

No. No, they can’t. 

“Steve,” you plead. “I-I need to get up—”

“No, you don’t,” he says softly, arm tightening around you.

God, it feels so good to be held like this. You twist just enough to peek back at him but he buries his face into your hair.

You huff out a laugh, despite yourself. “You holding me hostage?”

He shrugs against your back. “You’re warm.”

It’s a bullshit excuse. Even now, you can feel his erection growing against your ass. His hand finds your stomach again, and his touch is intentional this time as it slides under your shirt to feel the way your chest moves with every quick breath. 

“Steve,” you whimper. “I’m a-adding another rule…I have to.”

You half expect him to argue or groan miserably. But he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says quietly, nose still tucked in your hair. Like it brings him some sort of comfort. “Let’s hear it.”

Your breath stutters as his palm glides higher. An inch to the left and he’d brush over your nipple. They’re already so hard they’re straining against your shirt. 

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your mind to focus. 

“Today,” you begin. “I need—”

His mouth drops to the curve of your neck again. It’s not a kiss. Not exactly.

His hot tongue dips out to taste your skin lazily, lips brushing over you like he’s mapping the distance from your neck to your shoulder. Like he has all the time in the world to just lie here in your bed with his eyes closed, morning sunlight streaming through the curtains, turning you into this aching, wet mess for him. 

You bite back a whimper and your hands fist in the sheets as you force your hips to stay still instead of rocking back into him. 

You have to remember you’re standing on the edge of a blade — one sharp enough to sting, to cut, to slice every piece of you and your relationship with Steve to shreds. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs, mouth warm at your neck. “What’dya need?”

“We shouldn’t…t-touch today,” you say, rushing to get all the words out before his thumb brushes your nipple and you’re rolling on top of him and ripping his pants down his legs. 

“What?” He laughs softly, but his hand stops its dangerous, delicious trek. “Like...at all?”

“Yes.”

You hold your breath as he slowly withdraws his hand, and puts an inch of distance between you in the bed. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Your chest tightens. “No, Steve. You’re doing everything right. Everything. I just — I can’t think straight. I swear I can’t—”

“Wait.” He pushes up on one elbow, smirking down at you. “You’re saying I’m that hard to resist, huh?”

Your stomach dips as you lock eyes with him. You want to roll your eyes playfully, tell him to fuck off. But you can’t. Because you want nothing more than to thread your fingers into his hair and tug his mouth to yours. Just wrinkle up these sheets real good. 

You force yourself to rip your gaze from his and tumble out of the bed instead, narrowly missing touching his hand half-covered by the blankets. 

His eyes track you as you dart around the room, gathering fresh clothes.

“Okay,” he says, thoughtfully. “But how’re we supposed to sell the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing if we can’t touch?” 

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, too fast. 

You will, because you can’t deal with the alternative right now. You just can’t. You need to sit down and think about this.

You wish you could talk to your best friend, but you can’t even look at him without seeing last night: your hand down his pants, his breath hitching under your arm, the way his head fell back into your pillows. 

Oh, God. Clothes. 

Get dressed right now before you tumble into bed with him again. 

“Actually,” Steve says slowly, “this is a great plan.”

You risk a glance over at him. He’s still propped up in bed, staring at the rumpled sheets where your warm body just was, brushing his knuckles across his lips. 

He’s thinking. 

“Really?” You ask. 

When he looks up at you his eyes are sharp and determined.

“Yeah,” he says, swinging his long legs out of the bed. “Bet all your douchebag boyfriends thought they could fix everything with their hands on you didn’t they?”

“W-what?”

“You think not touching’s gonna kill this thing between us?” Steve says lightly. “You’re wrong.”

Your heartbeat stutters at the words this thing between us. He strides across the room toward you and you stand still as he draws closer. Close enough to touch. 

“By tonight,” he says, meeting your gaze, “You’re gonna be beggin’ me to touch you.”

You lift your chin, trying to look fierce and determined, but that bedhead of his is doing you absolutely no favors. 

“Harrington— if either one of us is going to be doing any begging here, we both know it would be you.”

He smiles. “You’re on.”

─── ✻ ───

You didn’t mean to make a sex bet with your best friend who you are supposed to be fake dating for Christmas. 

But hey. These things happen! 

That’s what you tell yourself as you and Steve stare up at the new mistletoe that’s just been hung with care in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs.

It shimmers and twirls on a red ribbon, hung suspiciously low. Like it wants to be noticed. You and Steve exchange a look. He turns first, walking into the kitchen. His hair brushes the mistletoe on the way through, sending it twirling. 

You turn to look out the window instead. All that snow that fell during the night sure stuck. There’s at least two — maybe three—feet of fresh powder outside, coating everything in a thick layer that’s so bright it almost hurts to look at. From where you’re standing, you can barely make out the tail end of Steve’s car, the back tires nearly swallowed by a snowbank. 

You’d need a shovel to get anywhere. A snowplow to go on any roads. 

You sigh. Snowed in. This is going to be a long fucking day. 

The kitchen is empty, save for Steve, currently rummaging through the fridge. 

You pad over to the coffee pot sitting on the sun-warmed counter. When you reach for a mug in the cupboard above, Steve steps in behind you to grab one at the time. Your fingers nearly brush, but he pulls away at the last second. 

“You did that on purpose,” you whisper. 

He huffs out a laugh and his arms drop to cage you in against the counter. Leaning over your shoulder, he dips his face to look at you. The movement sends a lock of hair falling over his eyes and it brushes your forehead. 

“See?” you breathe. “Your hair’s touching me.”

He smirks, but makes no effort to move it. “My hair doesn’t count.”

If you step back even an inch, your back will meet his chest. So you stay still, blinking up at him. 

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” he says softly. “Look at you. You’re already panting.”

You open your mouth to defend yourself but he leans away before you can. Air rushes in between you and you nearly stumble into the counter from the sudden shift. 

Oh, this bastard. He’s doing it on purpose. 

Just then, Mom appears around the corner. 

“Steve!” She says cheerfully. But you see the dark circles under her eyes, and the way she squints against the sunlight. Yeah, she’s hungover alright. “I’m so glad you’re up. You’re good with your hands, right?”

Steve shoots you a look before he turns back to her. “Absolutely.”

Oh, God. He’s insufferable. 

“The kitchen sink won’t turn on,” Mom continues, gesturing behind you to the sink against the window. “I reckon it’s just these old pipes actin’ up, but I don’t have the first clue how to fix it.”

“Mom,” you start. “It’s not Steve’s responsibility to—”

Steve lifts a hand, cutting you off. “I’ll take a look.”

Ten minutes later, Steve’s on his knees in front of the sink with a box of tools sitting beside him. His red long-sleeve is shoved up to his elbows, exposing rippling forearms as he works a screwdriver against the copper piping. 

You’re hovering. You know you are. 

He’s already told you there’s nothing you can do to help him. You’ve even tried to drag Ed down here to fix his own damn sink, but he’s in the middle of an important chapter. Full robe, writing hat, and focus glasses. Serious stuff. 

Mom can’t call a repairman because of the snow. So you’re stuck here, watching Steve Harrington fix everything in your life and feeling like a jerk for it all. 

A orange rag sticks out of his back jeans pocket. He grunts, ducking further beneath the cabinet. His back muscles flex and stretch as he works that damn tool.

Suddnely, he turns and glances over his shoulder. He catches you staring right before you turn away. His lips twitch and he goes back to work. 

Your cheeks heat. It’s bad enough you’re just standing here watching him work, even worse that you’re actively ogling him while he does it. 

That’s it. You need to make yourself useful. You jump into action, rummaging for supplies to bake something. There’s not a lot to work with in the pantry, but there’s brownie mix. 

You don’t even care what it is, you just need something to do. You tell yourself you’re making them for Steve as you gather the supplies, that he deserves a little sweet treat for being so accommodating even when he doesn’t have to be.

You dodge around him a few times, grabbing utensils from the drawer to his left, nearly knocking into his foot as you round the kitchen island, but you stop yourself just in time before you make contact.

It doesn’t take long after you put the brownies in the oven for the scent to fill the air. You clean the kitchen while they bake, brushing stray mix off the counters and sweeping the floor. 

Steve hums while he works. 

You never noticed that about him before, but he does. It’s soft and mindless, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He’d definitely deny it if you pointed it out. Still, something about it loosens a knot in your chest as you busy yourself with tidying up. 

When the sun peeks out from behind a passing cloud, your eyes lift just in time see Steve finish the job. 

Sunlight streams through the curtains, cascading over his shoulders as he straightens, filtering through that mussed hair. When he turns to face you, the light frames him in a glow so romantic, so perfect, it feels ripped straight from one of Dad’s bestsellers. 

You drop your gaze to the floor. 

Steve chuckles. When you risk a glance back up at him, his lower back is resting against the sink ledge, one long leg casually crossed over the other at the ankle. He rubs his hands down with that orange rag, wearing a downright slutty grin.

“At least try to keep it in your pants, Ace,” he says lightly, and his eyes snap to yours. “It’s only ten in the morning.”

Bastard. 

The front door opens with a bang. 

“Hey!” Sam bursts into the cottage, bundled in his yellow puffer coat, cheeks red and windburned, a purple knit beanie perched on his head. “You’re awake!”

Steve smiles at him, still leaning against the sink. “Mornin’, Sammy.”

The timer chimes and you hurry to pull the brownies from the oven. You cut them carefully before placing the tray on the kitchen island. You’ve barely set it down before Sam’s greedy fingers reach in, digging out a corner piece before you can protest. 

“Careful, Sam!” you scold, swatting at his little hand. “It’s still hot!”

But it’s not use, because by the time you reach him he’s got half the handful stuffed in his mouth. 

“Cmoph less go cho dow a trmpth.” He says around the gigantic bite.  

“What?” Steve laughs.

Sam turns to him and swallows. “I said, let’s go chop down a Christmas tree!”

You frown. “Pawpaw Ben always drops one off for us.”

“He can’t ‘cause of the snow!” Sam exclaims, brown eyes sparkling. “So he called and said we can chop down any one we want!”

Every year, Pawpaw Ben goes around chopping down the best trees for his family, hand-delivering them strapped to the top of his vintage cars like some kinds of backwoods Santa. 

The property the cottage sits on technically belongs to Pawpaw Ben’s Christmas tree farm, but the Fraser firs here aren’t farmed. They’re more like wild patches that sprang up due to the fertile soil and stray seeds. 

“Alright,” Steve says, already grabbing his jacket by the door. “Lead the way, little man.”

Sam pumps a fist into the air, stuffs the rest of the brownie into his mouth, and bolts out the door. 

Steve glances over his shoulder, that lock of brown hair falling into his eyes. He holds your gaze for a long moment. Long enough for you to wonder if he’s gazing at you standing there in the warm kitchen the same way you were with him. 

“Well, you comin?”

─── ✻ ───

The sun filters through the trees towering far above, sending the snow stacked tall on the bare branches sparkling like glitter. Icicles drip steadily from the limbs, creating slushy dots and narrow tunnels in the white carpet below.

The sled whispers behind you as you trek through the woods in search of the perfect tree, having been quickly abandoned by Sam. 

He’s running up ahead, bounding from Fraser to Fraser, muttering to himself about one being too short, or too tall. 

You both watch him in quiet amusement. 

“Do you want kids?” Steve asks quietly. 

You look over at him, eyes wide. “What?” 

He exhales a laugh and shrugs, twirling the handle of the axe he grabbed from the shed. “Never mind. That was—yeah. Sorry.”

“No,” you rush to reassure him. “I just—” Your breath fogs into the cold air, smoky in the sunshine. 

 Oh, God. How do you begin to explain the sinful thoughts that just ran through your head when he asked you that? 

“It just caught me off guard, that’s all,” you say softly. “Kids haven’t exactly been on my radar. You know, with the whole college thing. Not to mention all my relationships not lasting more than a few weeks. But…yeah. I do. Eventually.”

He seems content with that answer, but he stays quiet. The stillness of the forest and the crunch of your boots fills the silence between you. 

You move to shove his shoulder playfully with yours, but stop at the last second. 

No touching, remember?

You stumble back instead, shoving your mittened hands into your pockets. And for some reason, right now, you really regret making that rule. It was a stupid, immature way to force some much needed oxygen into your hormone-filled brain. 

But now? You can’t even nudge your best friend. And it feels weird. Wrong, even. 

You clear your throat. “I know you want kids. How many?”

“I want a lot, I think.” he says. “Like six.” 

His answer is immediate. You would laugh, but his voice is so certain, and earnest, you can’t. 

“Six,” you repeat, tasting the word. “That’s…an even number.”

God, what else do you say to something like that? Because right now all you can think is about how much you need to stop thinking about all the sex it would take to have six kids with Steve. 

But more than that, his words strike something deep in your chest. You wouldn’t hate a big family. You were always a little lonely growing up, until Sam came along. But you were almost out of the house by then. 

“Yeah,” Steve says with a small, sheepish smile. “Six little nuggets. I don’t know, I think it’d be fun.” He shrugs. “The house would never be quiet.”

The house would never be quiet. 

There would be no more of that complete silence you’ve always hated at the cottage. No more shoving your bed up against the wall just to feel a little closer to someone. No more vast emptiness for Steve to come home to. Your heart aches thinking about him all alone in that great big house, completely ignored by his parents. 

He deserves a big family. 

He deserves everything he could ever want. 

For some reason, you feel the need to reassure him about that. To make sure he knows a wish like that could never be stupid. 

“You’ll be an incredible dad one day, Steve.”

His eyes meet yours. They’re so soft. So meltingly warm and rich, just like those brownies straight from the oven. 

He swallows, nodding once. “Yeah?”

You open your mouth to say more—anything that will get you that soft, excited, bashful look back. You want him to look at you like that every day. 

“I found it!” Sam calls. “This one’s perfect.”

You and Steve turn to find Sammy grinning up at a gorgeous Fraser. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, stepping forward, axe in hand. “It is.”

When he swings, the axe blade buries deep in the wood with a solid thunk that seems to reverberate through your bones. Snow shudders from the branches, falling in clumps and catching in Steve’s hair, dusting his shoulders. 

And for a moment, you feel like that tree. You can almost feel the sharp bite of the blade in your chest — splitting you open, cleaving through bone, cracking something deep inside you that’s long since frozen over. 

This must be a new form of torture, you think. 

To be desired by a man you cannot have, but desperately want anyway. 

─── ✻ ───

“C’mon, Sam Man,” Steve says, ushering Sam over to his side beside the tree. “You wanna do the honors?” 

He holds out a golden star from the box of ornaments, and Sam runs over eagerly to grab it. He squeals as Steve lifts him up easily above his head, helping him perch the star at the very top. 

Between chopping the tree down, hauling it back on the sled, setting it up, and decorating it, the whole thing has taken you all afternoon. But it’s worth it, because it’s gorgeous now. Strung with soft lights and gleaming ornaments that smell faintly like the basement. You spent way more time than necessary stringing up all the little trinkets and snapshots of childhood nostalgia now scattered in the branches. 

After the star’s firmly in place, Sam runs into the dining room at Mom’s call to help set the table for dinner. Steve follows him, offering his help as well. Mom’s been holed up in her room all day. She says she’s been wrapping presents, but you know she’s really been nursing that hangover. 

Still, she did emerge eventually, carrying an armful of gifts stacked so high you can’t even see her face behind them. They’re stacked underneath the tree now. 

With no one in the room with you now, you duck underneath the tree to sneakily read the name tags on each present. 

Steve’s name appears more than any other. 

You smile at that. It shouldn’t make you so happy, but it does. And even as that familiar knot of anxiety crawls back into your chest at the thought of telling your family you’ve broken up once you get back at school, you’re glad you brought him here. He deserves to be doted on like this. He deserves a real, true Christmas. 

Even if it’s just once—with you. 

Then something catches your eye. 

A small box, wrapped messily in blue and silver wrapping paper. It’s tucked behind the new presents Mom brought down, like it might’ve been the first one placed on the tree skirt. 

Your name is scribbled across it in sharpie. 

In Steve’s handwriting. 

“Whatcha doin’?” 

You spring back so fast your head knocks into a glass ornament. It slips free, clinking onto the hardwood floor and rolling away. You move to grab it, but it stops beneath a shoe. 

Your gaze travels up from the shoe, to a pair of jeans, to a flannel, and finally to Steve’s smirk. 

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you breakin’ anything.”

You hop to your feet and brush your hands over your jeans.

“What’s in the box, Steve?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Oh, you’ll find out.”

“You really didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Hey,” he says lightly, “what kind of a boyfriend would I be if you didn’t have a present from me on Christmas morning, huh?”

You swallow hard. You got him something, too, of course. But it’s not under the tree yet.

“Right,” you mutter. “Well…I should probably go get yours.”

You move past him, narrowly avoiding brushing his arm with yours, before bounding up the stairs. 

You quickly wrap the few small gifts for your family, as well as Steve’s present.

When you make your way back downstairs a small time later, you’re carrying four gifts at once, barely able to see over the stack. You round the corner into the doorway just as someone turns into it from the other side. 

You collide. 

There’s a flash of brown hair and a steady hand at your waist before it’s gone again.

Steve. 

The breath whooshes from your chest at the unexpected contact. It was completely accidental—his skin didn’t even touch yours— but you feel like you’ve been electrocuted. 

“You good, baby?” He asks. 

Your mouth drops open and all the gifts in your arms nearly tumble to the floor.

Baby. He’s never called you that before. 

You carefully lower the presents, peeking up at him. 

He’s looking down at you, a small smile playing at his lips. “I was just comin’ to check on you.”

“I’m good,” you say quickly, moving to step toward the living room.

“Stop!” Mom calls. 

You freeze, peeking around the stack of presents to see her standing in the kitchen, eyeing the two of you beneath the doorway. 

“It’s bad luck not to kiss under the mistletoe!” She says, gesturing emphatically to the plant hanging above you. 

You’d almost forgotten about that. 

Dad’s in the middle of sneaking a taste of the stew Mom’s stirring, but even he looks up now. The two of you stare back at them like deer caught in headlights. 

Sam blinks at you from his seat on the kitchen island, then grins. 

“Yeah—kiss!” he shouts. 

Slowly, all three of them join in, the chant growing louder by the second.

“Kiss, Kiss, Kiss!”

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath. “They’re relentless.”

Steve chuckles beside you but he makes no moves toward you. He just stands there, letting you choose. And something about that just makes you want to grab his collar and pull his mouth down to yours.

But no. It’s too dangerous. 

Besides, if you ever kiss him again, it won’t be on a dare in front of your family as his fake girlfriend. It will be for real. 

And that’s never going to happen. 

It can’t happen.

“You’re all a bunch of perverts, you know that?” you call, brushing past Steve into the living room.

Mom groans as you deposit the presents under the tree. “Not even a peck? Do you know how much bad luck that brings, honey? Your whole next year is practically cursed!”

You sigh. “I’ll take my chances.”

To you, your next year already feels cursed. Because next Christmas, he won’t be here with you. And you’re not sure how you’re going to survive that. 

You glance back at Steve Harrington beneath the mistletoe, his broad shoulder resting against the doorframe, those soft brown eyes fixed on you. 

He smirks and drops his gaze, brushing his knuckles across his lips. 

When his gaze lifts to yours again, your heart stutters. The look he sends you says he has no intentions of stopping this little game the two of you are playing. 

And the worst part is, you’re not sure you want him to. 

─── ✻ ───

a/n: who do you think will break first? if you're loving this story reposts and likes are always appreciated. and feel free to come by my page to say hi!! :)

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She giggles and ducks inside, and you’re hot on her heels. You thought the house had quieted down, after all the kids piled into the movie room to watch The Grinch — at Sam’s insistence — but apparently not. 

You follow the chanting to your favorite room. 

After dinner, everyone pitched in to help clean up, and before long the expansive living space was restored to its natural state. The four couches weren’t enough, so random arm chairs and loveseats have been dragged in, and people still spill out onto the floor, sitting between their partner’s ankles, blankets tossed over their laps.

Your grandparents sit in the loveseats. Your mom’s parents, Nan & Papaw Ben. Your dad’s parents, Granddad and Grandmom.

Dusk has fallen, and the first stars of the night wink at you through the tall windows. A cheerful fire crackles in the fireplace, and the Christmas lights on the gigantic tree cast a warm glow over the low backed seats, all of them full to the brim with family. 

Every single person wears a suspiciously excited expression.

And they’re all staring at Steve. 

He stands near the fireplace, one arm resting on the brick mantle. Granddad sits beside him in his recliner, and you look up just in time to see him expertly toss an old ball cap into the air. 

It lands neatly on Steve’s head, and the room erupts in cheers. 

Oh no. 

“Okay, okay,” Steve motions for the crowd to simmer down. “Whoa. What is happening?” 

He plucks the hat off his head and holds it near the firelight, squinting at it like it’ll explain itself to him. 

“It’s the story hat!” Aunt Ramona announces eagerly. A little too eagerly. “Granddad passes it around every Christmas. Whoever it lands on has to tell us all a story!”

Usually it’s some dramatic or heartfelt moment from the past year, but it could be anything.

Papaw Ben always tells the same story every single year, which is why he’s worn the hat less and less as the tradition’s gone on. He swears he never remembers telling it before, but you know better. And you certainly don’t blame him. 

The trick is to say nothing revealing or vulnerable. Unless you want to be mocked for the rest of your life about it. You made that mistake once by telling them the story of beating Steve in poker. You thought it was a powerful story about not underestimating someone new, and that friendships could be built on the tiniest of interactions.

Instead of that heartfelt message, they collectively decided it meant you had a crush on him and called you Mrs. Harrington for an entire year. 

And Banks just had to rub it in even further by mentioning that memory to Steve today. 

Now Steve’s up there, and he could tell them anything.

He’s collected so much dirt on you over the years.

Like the time you failed a class and lied to your parents, retook it over the summer, and paid out of pocket just so you wouldn’t have to tell them about it.

Or the night you and Steve were on a drive late at night and got pulled over afterward for speeding. You struck a deal with the young cop that you’d show him your tits if he didn’t give you a ticket. Steve complained very loudly from the passenger seat as you stepped out and flashed the officer once. Not your best idea. 

But, it worked.  

Anyway. The point is, it doesn’t have to be a wild story. It could be a sweet moment, a sad tragedy, a small interaction. It’s all in the way you tell it. 

This is, after all, a family of narrative lovers. Romance authors and introspectives, creatives and actors, and most of all, people with far too much investment in each other’s personal lives. 

“Alright,” Steve says slowly. 

He walks over to the edge of the couch closest to him, currently occupied by too many bodies, and perches on the arm rest. One leg hooks over the leather edge, the other planted on the floor. 

He leans forward, elbow on his knee, hat in hand. The entire room leans in with him, desperate to see if he’ll participate. You find yourself inching closer too, then mentally kick yourself.

You should stay behind the farthest couch while he tells whatever story he’s got in mind,  just in case you need to turn and run. 

Steve glances around the room and flips the hat in his hand once. Everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if he’ll toss it onto someone else’s head instead. But with every eye on him, he turns it around and pulls it down onto his head.

Backwards.

The room explodes. A low, appreciative whistle cuts through the noise — you’re pretty sure it came from Uncle Rick. 

You, meanwhile, can’t seem to think straight. You’re too busy staring at that bashful smirk. The way his hair curls out through the back opening, and around the edges, soft and unruly. 

It works on him. It really fucking works. Even in that tan sweater with that ugly reindeer on the front. His broad shoulders are backlit by the glow of the fire, his smile tipped down toward the floor.

He’s stunning.

“Got to tell the story like you’re writing it, boy!” Granddad pipes up.

“We know you’re not a writer,” Mom chimes in. “But try to tell it like you’d imagine it in a book.”

“Well, it won’t be that good,” Steve says, a little shy. His eyes lift to meet yours across the couches. “Good thing I’ve been brushing up on my reading lately, huh?”

Your face heats at the memory of him reading that sex scene out loud over your morning coffee. God—why is it suddenly so hot in here? 

You narrow your eyes at him playfully but Steve just smiles, a mischievous glint stealing across his eyes in the firelight. 

What is he…

He turns back to his adoring crowd. “Allow me to tell you the story…of our first kiss.”

Cold glass presses into the sleeve of your sweater.

“You looked like you needed this,” Banks mutters over the excited titters rippling through the crowd at Steve’s announcement. 

You nod, eyes locked on Steve as you clutch the glass stem of a fresh martini like a lifeline. “God, I fuckin’ missed you, Banks.”

He chuckes. “I know.”

You take an eager sip, letting the liquor burn your throat to distract you from the heat you’re feeling in other places at Steve in that fucking backwards hat. 

“You’re blushing again,” Banks whispers.

You take another swig. “Fuck.” 

“It all started three years ago,” Steve begins.“We were camping. Just us and a couple friends. Summer of our freshman year. It was dark, and we were all curled up by the fire. Everyone was drunk.”

"Not drunk drunk,” he adds quickly. “Just…campfire drunk.”

The room nods along, understanding what he means. That level of tipsy where you have the best (worst) ideas in the world, and you can’t quite count all the stars in the sky because they keep shifting a little. 

“There were marshmallows,” Steve continues, as if that explains everything. “We burned most of them.”

“They’re better that way,” you blurt. Everyone’s eyes turn to you, and you shrink slightly.

Steve points at you. “Thank you.” 

You hide your smile behind your glass. You’ve both always liked the fluffy desserts charred to a crisp. That night, you craved that bitter, sticky taste that lingered in the back of your mouth. Like if the flavor lasted longer, you could remember the night long after it was gone. 

Steve rubs the back of his neck as the entire room’s gaze swings back to him expectantly. But you’ve got to give him credit. A room full of eyes on him, and he’s only a little flustered. 

“She was sitting next to me,” he says. “Shoulder to shoulder. And I remember thinking—like—why am I so aware of that? Just…locked in on it. That feeling.”

Someone across the room sighs. 

He drags his knuckles across his mouth, gaze catching yours. Your heart pounds in your chest, remembering right along with him.  

“Then,” he says, “she leaned in to say something—”

“What’d she say?” Aunt Tiff interrupts. 

“I don’t know,” Steve admits. “That’s the thing. I stopped hearing words. Don’t even remember thinking anything. Just how…crazy gorgeous she looked in the firelight. And I just—I had to know what it felt like.” 

Then quieter, he adds, “Just once.”

The fire crackles through the silent room. Somewhere upstairs, The Grinch murmurs faintly, the sound drifting down and mingling with everyone’s bated breath. 

“So, what happened?” Dad asks, breaking the stillness. 

The room groans. Mom smacks his back from her seat beside him, a wide grin stretching across her face. She looks happy. Really happy. 

“We just—” Steve starts, then his eyes flick to Ed. “Wait. Is that a pen? Are you writing this down?”

Dad shrugs unapologetically, peering at the open notebook in his lap. “Simmering summer tension. The blur between friends and…friendlier. It’s good stuff!”

Steve groans, running a hand over his face, but you catch the way his lips twitch slightly. 

He likes this. He likes being the center of attention. In a way that’s shy and sweet, but also sort of sad. Like he’s not used to it, but he doesn’t mind it either. 

“And we kissed,” he says quickly, before anyone can interrupt that part. You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Who leaned in first?” Grandmom asks, “Very important detail.”

“Him,” you say.

“Her,” Steve says at the exact same time. 

He laughs, looking down for a second. One large palm reaches up to tug his hat lower, the brim brushing the curls at the nape of his neck. 

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. 

“Well?” Banks gestures toward him.“Was it good?” 

Steve blinks. “Yes.” A beat passes. “I mean— yeah. Obviously.”

Aunt Amy looks between the two of you. “And?” 

“And?” Steve says, floundering for a more novel-like way to put it. “And what? It was incredible, and…her lips tasted like sugar and beer.”

There’s an actual groan from the left couch.

“Oh, that’s just illegal,” Aunt Tiff says. “One of you writers fix that. Sorry, Steve.”

Steve nods along playfully, but he’s staring into the fire, unseeing. Like he’s deep within the memory that you revisit way too often, in those moments between waking and sleeping.

“Yeah” he murmurs. “I just. Knew.” 

“Knew what?” Mom asks softly.

You can hardly breathe as you lean in to catch his next words. 

Steve sighs. “Just that one day…she’d be with me. For real.”

When his eyes lift back to yours, something shifts inside you. A tectonic plate, deep underground in your frozen heart. You nearly gasp at the intensity of the rush. 

Steve wants you. 

There’s no faking the softness of that look right there. Gentle smile lines, the almost apologetic, hopeful curve of his mouth, curls escaping the hat, his lashes casting shadows across his cheeks as he drops his gaze. 

And you want him, too.

God, you do.

You’ve been denying it for a long time now. Years, at this point. 

But you can’t have him. Because you would absolutely fucking ruin him. 

And you’re not willing to do that to the best person you’ve ever known. 

If you fell apart, everything you’d built together would crash and burn. And in the aftermath, staring at the rubble and the smoke of memories spent together, you’d look around for your best friend. 

And he wouldn’t be there. 

─── ✻ ───

Ed can’t find his keys. 

The sun is long gone, the party winding down. Kids whine through sugar crashes. Everyone’s sluggish from the big meal, rubbing their eyes and searching the house for their families — or their beds.

Most of the group is staying overnight, but for the few that aren’t, Banks volunteered as the designated driver, and they’ve already filtered out in a noisy carpool. 

But the four of you can’t leave, because Dad swears he ‘left his keys right here.’

You’re the one who ends up searching the whole house for them while Dad fights sleep on the couch, your head still swimming slightly from the three drinks you’ve had tonight.

Sam tugs at Mom’s sweater, begging to go home. But she just absently shushes him and shrieks with laughter at something your equally drunk Aunt Tiff is saying. 

Mom hasn’t been this drunk in a long time. You’re already dreading dragging her out of here.

Steve, however, is at your side. Quiet and steady. His soft sweater brushes yours every time you turn a corner as you wind through the house. At one point, he catches your elbow, gently stopping you from nearly slamming into a sudden dark wall.

It’s taking everything in you to not slam him up against the wall instead and press your mouth to his. 

His voice is so soft, and his hair’s so soft, and fuck — you’re tipsy. 

Eventually, Nan finds you both wandering into the kitchen. 

“Here,” she says, beckoning you toward the garage, “Let’s just get you all home. I’m sure I’ll find Ed’s keys in the morning while I clean this place up. We can swap cars later.”

“Are you sure?” you ask.

“Yes, honey. All the beds here are taken I’m afraid. Here—” She opens the door and flicks on the garage light. “Take your pick.”

Steve inhales sharply.

Six cars sit lined up in the garage, parked with care. The scent of gasoline and pine carries through the open garage door. A couple are newer, but the rest are Papaw Ben’s antiques he’s obsessed with keeping in pristine shape. 

“Oh,” Steve practically moans, bounding down the steps and over to a cream-yellow 1978 Cadillac Eldorado. “Now, this is what I’m talkin’ about.”

Nan chuckles. “That’s Ben’s favorite. Hasn’t been started in a bit, but should still drive fine.”

“Oh, forget Ben,” Steve mutters, smoothing a hand reverently over the hood. “Steve’s her daddy now.”

You cross your arms, tilting your head. “Really? The third-person thing? We’ve talked about this.”

“I’ll go get the rest of your crew,” Nan says, shooting you a wink before moving inside.

“Thank you,” you whisper, just before she shuts the door behind her. 

Steve is fully enamored. He’s murmuring things under his breath, crouching to inspect the hubcaps and suspension, as if he’s going to find gold in the ancient undercarriage. 

“This is incredible,” he says finally. “She’s in amazing shape.”

“Glad you like her,” you say, tossing him a pair of keys off the sprawling key ring next to the door. He catches them easily. “Because you’re driving. I would, but I had two of Banks’ martinis, and my parents are fucking wasted.”

He nods, unsurprised. “Why do you think I stuck to water at dinner?”

A sliver of guilt lodges itself under your ribs. You could have been more responsible.

Forcing Steve to drive your family home? You were only planning on having two drinks but then that fucking first kiss story pushed you over the edge, didn’t it? 

Still, Steve shouldn’t have been thinking this would be his responsibility. 

“Hey, Ace,” Steve calls.

You glance up to find he’s he’s already looking at you. 

“You couldn’t take these keys from me if you pried them out of my cold, dead fingers, alright?”

You smile softly. “Alright.”

Ten minutes later, you’re all piled into the Cadillac. You in the front, Mom and Dad in the back with Sammy wedged between them.

When Steve turns the ignition, he demands a full minute of complete silence so he can listen to it purr. 

Mom eventually kicks the back of his seat, demanding he stop his ‘car audio porn’ long enough to get you home. To which Steve promptly swats back at her ankles, cursing her for the heinous offense of her dirty shoes on this leather, which just sends her into obnoxiously loud peals of laughter. 

Uncle Rick knocks on Steve’s window just as you are about to pull away.

“Merry Christmas, you lot,” he says, ducking his head inside briefly. His mustache twitches beneath a bright red scarf.

“Oh—” Steve reaches up and touches Granddad’s hat still perched backward on his head. “Here. Forgot to give this back.”

“Keep the hat, Harrington.” Uncle Rick says, nodding toward you. “Your girl seems to like it. Bring it back next year, yeah?” 

He claps Steve on the shoulder and steps back, waving as you begin to roll away. 

“I will,” Steve calls over the crunch of the gravel, “Merry Christmas!”

I will. 

He won’t. But the certainty in which he says it sends a warmth through you that has nothing to do with the alcohol in your blood. 

A few minutes after Steve turns onto the main road, his hand starts to wander.

You watch as it climbs over the controls on the dash, past the console, and then onto your seat. Your heart stutters when his fingers brush your leg again. But this time, he just lays his hand in your lap, palm up. Asking. 

Pretend. Right. 

It’s just pretend. 

But time seems to stand still as you stretch your fingers out over his, noticing the difference in length and softness.

Quietly, gently, you ease your hand sideways until your finger slip between his. 

You stare down at your intertwined hands. They glow for a second as you pass a streetlamp, then go dark again. Your throat tightens and you swallow hard. Nobody’s ever held your hand while driving before. 

Then his hand slips away.

Your stomach drops. 

Did you do something wrong? Were you too slow in giving him your hand, he assumed you didn’t want to? 

You glance over at him. 

Steve’s eyes are on the dash and he thumps the thin plate of glass once, as if trying to get something to work correctly. His brow furrows and he leans forward in his seat, splitting his attention between the road and the softly lit gauges. 

Oh no. 

“Steve,” you say quietly, “Is there a problem?”

“Probably not,” he responds. But he doesn’t sound convinced. 

Three minutes later, the car starts sputtering. 

Steve slowly eases it off the long stretch of empty road, tires crunching in the snow. 

You look in the backseat. All three of them are conked the fuck out. Dad’s leaning back against the seat, snoring. Sam’s temple rests on Mom’s shoulder, her head on his, both of them sleeping soundly. 

“I’ll wake them,” you sigh, reaching back. 

Steve stops you with a hand on your knee. “Don’t. I think I can fix it.”

Your brows knit in confusion. “How are you going to—”

But he’s already pressing a button to pop the hood and stepping out.

You get out too, shutting the door quietly behind you. Cold air bites at your skin and you peer cautiously into the dark pines rimming both sides of the road. 

“We should call someone,” you say toward the open hood. 

He appears just as you round the front of the car, colliding with you.

You grip his jacket to stay upright and he catches your waist, pulling you flush against him. It’s so dark out you can barely make out his features, but he’s smiling, you think. Just a little. And that eases something tight in your chest. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, “Have a little faith in me. I might not know much— but I know cars.” 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

The air pulls tight between you. The tension thick and shimmery, like snowflakes caught in headlight beams on the highway. 

There’s so much you haven’t said. So much you want to talk to him about. But now’s not the time. Right now, you just need to get your family home. 

Because you’re all a bunch of self-absorbed idiots — and Steve Harrington’s the only good one among you.

He makes sure you’re steady on your feet before brushing past you and opening the trunk. You follow after him. 

“You know more than just cars, Steve,” you say. And you’re not really sure why you’re saying it, honestly.

He just…always says stuff like that. Sells himself short, or thinks he’s dumber than he is. And yes, sometimes, he is dumb. But he’s smart, too. Smarter than he believes.

He reaches up to run a hand through his hair but remembers the hat he’s wearing. So, his fingers ghost over the worn fabric instead, pulling the brim down together to the nape of his neck as he opens the toolbox stored in the trunk.

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, Ace. Here. Hold this for me, yeah?”

His breath fogs in the beam as he flicks on the flashlight and passes it to you. A wrench follows, and then he shuts the trunk and strides back to the hood.

You trail after him.

He leans in, squinting, one hand braced on the edge of the car while the other sweeps over the ancient knobs and gears. 

“C’mon, baby,” he mutters, low and coaxing, like the car can hear him.

He knocks a knuckle against metal and the noise reverberates through the still night. He pulls back just long enough to blow warm air into his hands before diving back in. 

“Little higher,” he mutters and you pull the flashlight beam up more.

When he takes the wrench from you, your hands brush in the dark. He spins it between his fingers once before he uses it, so casual, like he’s done this a hundred times before. 

You’re so busy watching him, you’re not paying attention and the flashlight slips from your numb hand, clattering against the frame. 

“Shit—sorry,” you mutter and rush to reach for it. 

“Stop,” he says quickly, ushering you back. “Some of this shit runs hot. You could get burned.”

“Oh,” you pull back immediately. “Sorry.”

He reaches a long arm into the frame, carefully fishing for the flashlight. “Stop apologizing, Ace.”

The light throws hard shadows across his face as he pulls it back out and hands it to you. 

“Sorry,” you mutter.

He straightens and rests his hands onto his hips, tossing you a look.  You hold up a hand in surrender, and he turns back to the engine.

“Ah,” he mutters, nudging something with the wrench. A soft click reverberates through the hood and you have no idea what he did, but the satisfied look on his face is enough for you. “She was just a little cold, that’s all. Carburetor choked.”

He straightens again, wipes his hands on his jeans, and shuts the hood with a firm, confident thud.“Beauty.”

"So…we’re good?” you ask. “You fixed it?”

“Yeah, Ace,” he says, a hint of a smile on his lips. You click the flashlight off. “We’re good.”

He holds your hand the rest of the way home. 

─── ✻ ───

“Harrington?” You call softly through the bathroom door late that night, back at the cottage. 

“Yeah it’s me, don’t cream your pants.”

Your eyes widen. “Don’t cre—what?”

The door opens, and Steve brushes past you in a cloud of shower steam, a white towel slung slow around his waist. 

And…nothing else. 

Fuck, he smells good. Clean and masculine. Familiar.

His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and you ache to take your fingers through it, pushing it to the side like he always does. It drips quietly onto his shoulders, the droplets rolling down his lean muscled chest, catching in that dusting of chest hair. 

Your arm still burns with the memory of brushing against it earlier in the kitchen. 

He smirks. “Sorry. Forgot my clothes upstairs.”

“Don’t apologize,” you say a little too quickly, dropping your eyes to the ground  

As far as you’re concerned, after getting you all home safe, helping drag both your parents to bed, and carrying little Sam to his room — even going so far as to tuck him into his baseball-themed comforter — Steve Harrington never has to apologize for anything ever again. 

“Shower’s open now,” he says, nodding toward the bathroom.“That’s why you’re here, right? Banging down the door?”

“I was not bang—” you cut yourself off and gesture to the towel and clean pajama set in your arm as if that explains everything. “I’m just — okay, g’night.” 

You turn to slip past him but his hand catches your arm, keeping you close. 

“Unless,” he murmurs. In your peripheral, you watch his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow. 

“Unless what?” You whisper.

Your eyes betray you, drifting to his mouth despite your best efforts on keeping them glued to his brown eyes. He leans in just slightly and your head spins, body swaying toward him without really meaning to. 

He smiles softly. “You get a little southern accent when you’re around your mom, you know that? It’s cute.”

“I do not!” You yank your arm from his grasp. 

He quirks a brow. “Little bit.”

“I’m nothing like her.”

The words come out sharper than you expect. Bitter and pained. 

He steps back, blinking down at you.

You avert your gaze to the dark hallway behind him feeling suddenly very exposed and vulnerable just standing in front of him, your weakness cast in the warm light of the open bathroom door.  

“Okay,” he says gently, drawing out the word. He turns to leave. 

“No, Steve—” you grip his bare bicep before he can get far. It flexes under your touch. “I’m just—I’m sorry. Sorry you had deal with my family like that. Earlier. I’m…embarrassed.”

His eyes flit around the dark hallway, ensuring you’re alone. “Don’t be.”

Your hand drops from him and you stare at your socks against the wood floor. His hand curls once in your line of vision, like he wants to reach for you, but stops himself.

“Yeah, well,” you sigh wearily. “Mom hasn’t drank like that in a long time. Not since…not since a long time ago. And Dad’s just — he’s just in his own world. You know, I love him, but he’s not there for her like he should be. Or for Sam, either. And me — I’m not any better! Because I didn’t even think about you having to drive us all home, and then the car broke down and it was completely on you to—”

A hand covers your mouth. You stop short, blinking up at him from beneath his steady palm. 

He shakes his head and drops his hand. He shifts on his feet for a second before his head dips down to catch your eyes with his.

“My family…they don’t need me like that. I liked feeling needed. I was happy to help. Honest.”

“I know you were,” you murmur helplessly. “You’re such a good guy, Steve. And I—”

I don’t deserve you. That’s what you want to say, but the words lodge in your throat. 

Instead, you turn and slip past him into the bathroom, closing the door softly on the man who’s sure to break your heart. 

If you don’t break his first. 

─── ✻ ───

It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, and you’re wide awake.

Mainly for two reasons. 

The first is your brain, which has decided to become a torture device, insisting on dragging you through every minor interaction with Steve today. Replaying every glance, every touch, every word, trying to sort out what was fake…and what was real. 

Like what did he mean when he said he wanted to kiss you just once? Or why did he tell Banks you didn’t agree on when things changed between you? What did he mean by that?

The second reason is also caused by the man lying on the floor beside your bed, because Steve is completely incapable of falling asleep. 

He tosses and turns beneath his blankets, grunting softly as he tries to get comfortable for the millionth time. 

You haven’t said anything to each other since that moment outside the bathroom. When you crept upstairs, freshly showered, the lights were off in your room and his back was turned to you, cocooned on the floor. 

You really just want to talk to your best friend. But every time you open your mouth to say something, the silence presses in and the words die on your lips.

This is what you wanted to avoid all along — walls between you and him. 

You know how he takes his sandwiches. You know what he does when he’s stressed, and exactly how to make him laugh. But, for some reason, deep conversations about family weren’t a common occurrence between you.

You know the basics, of course. His parents provided for him physically, but were completely distant emotionally. And you gathered some other things along the way.

Like how his love of driving came from wanting to escape the house when they fought, how he learned to handle things alone because no one ever cared where he was or who he was with. 

As time went on, you let him keep that emotional distance from the subject with you, never feeling the need to press into his bruises.

But now, as you watch him take care of your family so devastatingly well and be adopted immediately by so many aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents…you’re beginning to think you’ve been incredibly selfish. 

You watched the way his eyes lit up when Uncle Patrick asked his opinion on the newest car models. How attentively he listened to Granddad’s stories, soaking them in like rain in a desert. The sheepish grin he tossed your way when Sam dragged him outside, begging him to join in the snowball fight.

To fight on his team, because he ‘needed him.’ 

He’s been starved for a family who loves him. That sees him. 

And you’re the biggest jerk in the world, because you gave him that today—only to tell him it’s not real. Faking a relationship with you is bad enough. But asking him to fake having a family?

That might be the worst thing you’ve ever done. 

Guilt gnaws at your insides, and with every shift and rustle from the ground, it bites even harder until you can’t take it anymore. 

It’s against the rules. But you know what? Fuck the rules. 

The literal least thing you could do is give Steve a proper place to sleep. 

That’s the reasoning you’re sticking with. Definitely not that small part of you that craves his warm, long body curled up beside yours. His steady heartbeat under your ear. 

 “Steve,” you whisper at long last. 

The blankets still. 

“Yeah?” he rasps. 

You swallow. How do you invite him up? What do you say? 

“Oh, thank God,” he mutters, and proceeds to launch himself off the floor and into your bed. 

You smother a shriek of surprise, laughing into your pillow as he harpoons himself beneath your blankets. That tightness in your chest eases at his playfulness. 

“Thank you,” he moans into the pillow beside yours. “My back might’ve actually killed me if I had to sleep on that hardwood again.”

“I’m know, I’m sorry,” you groan. “I just — “

“I know,” he says, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. “It’s all good, Ace. Remember?”

“Okay,” you say lamely. 

The sight of him hovering over you in your bed is sort of surreal.

Moonlight spills through the gauzy curtains behind him, catching in his messy hair. He’s wearing a sleep shirt and sweatpants now, but the memory of his bare chest is burned into your mind. You can almost see the outline of his broad shoulders through the thin fabric. 

He flops back down into the bed and the silence settles around you. 

So fucking quiet. 

“I see the way you look at me, you know,” he murmurs after a moment. 

You freeze. 

He does?

He rolls toward you and the bed dips his direction, careening you into him slightly. Your thigh bumps his. You stare at the ceiling, heart lodged in your throat. 

“Like you think I’m going to bolt out the door any second,” he adds.

Oh. That.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

Outside, fresh snow falls from the night sky, drifting past the window. You watch the shadows of the flakes slide silently across the ceiling. You feel like you should be comforting him. Saying these things to him. But you’re not sure how to without him shutting down. 

“Okay,” you murmur again, unsure of what else to say. 

Steve clears his throat, then rolls onto his side, facing the wall. The warmth of his thigh disappears, and somehow you’re colder now than you werebefore he climbed into bed with you.

He’s trying to keep a respectful distance, no doubt remembering your no-sharing-a-bed rule. But you kind of wish he wasn’t. 

Which means you’re officially off your rocker. 

He shifts again, tugging the blankets higher, and the sheets caress your bare legs. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing your body to calm the hell down. Because now there’s a dull throb between your legs, deep and insistent, and absolutely nothing you can do about it. 

Can you really be this touch starved after only six months without sex?

“Can I ask you something, Ace?” Steve whispers.

You nod, then remember he can’t really see you in the dark. “Yeah.”

“Do you…feel the same way about sex that everyone in your family does?”

“W-what?” you stammer. “No. What? No.”

“No?”

He leans up onto his elbow to look down at you again. You let your eyes follow the gentle slope of his brow down to the soft parting of his lips. He looks genuinely curious. 

“I mean, I like it, sure. Who doesn’t?” You swallow hard. “I guess? I don’t know —”

“So you…like it,” he clarifies. “You guess.” 

You squirm, averting your gaze to the blanket. He takes the hint, stretching himself back down beside you, hand on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. 

You sigh. “I mean, I get the romance part. But sex itself—I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s good, but—”

“But what?” he asks, almost eager.

“I don’t know,” you groan softly. You twist a stray thread from the comforter around your finger. “Just — what are we even talking about right now?”

A beat passes. 

“Y’know,” he says quietly, “I’ve been thinking.”

Your stomach flips. Normally, you’d respond with some teasing quip like, ‘You, thinking? That’s dangerous.’ Or, ‘Do I even want to know, Harrington?’

But, for some reason, you just…can’t. The space between you is so warm, your breaths too close together. Too quick. So, you just wait for him to continue.

"About why you didn’t stop me tonight,” he says. “At the dinner table.” 

The words come out rushed. A little breathless. And he exhales a soft, noncommittal laugh, like if you responded poorly he could just chalk it all up to an, ‘I was just joking, Ace.’

You shift in bed, the sheets beneath you suddenly too warm. If only he knew how many times you’d replayed that moment in your mind, too. 

“But now,” he says before you can respond, “I think I know why.”

“W-what? Why?”

“Well, since you don’t even like sex, I think it’s pretty clear all your douchebag boyfriends were shit in bed.”

“Oh, wow,” you mutter. “Fuck you very much.”

“It’s okay, you know,” he says solemnly, but there’s a smile in his voice. “To be curious about good sex. Healthy, even.”

His voice is so soft it makes you ache. You want to turn your head, to look at him. But one glance at those brown eyes, those lips whispering against your pillow, and you’re not sure you’d have any self-control left. 

Pull it together. Remember what’s at stake. 

With every second you don’t respond, you can almost feel the smugness radiating off him. Like by your silence alone, he knows he’s right. And that confidence — cheeky and maddening — is making something tight and needy coil low between your hips. 

“What’s your point, Harrington?” you snap. “I’ve tried to make it better, okay? And it’s not horrible or anything, it’s just not—”

“Good?” He finishes for you. 

You sigh. “Maybe it’s me! Maybe I’m the shit one in bed. Ever think of that?” 

He laughs once, low and husky. “It’s not you, Ace.”

“How do you know?” 

Your legs stretch out, searching for the cooler portion of the sheets. You’re burning up just lying here, breathlessly discussing good sex with your gorgeous best friend. 

A long, drawn out silence follows, heavy in the air between you. 

“Remember when you said you’d let me show you how you should be treated?” He whispers. 

“Yeah,” you say. So, he had heard you last night. 

He clears his throat. “I could—” 

Oh, God, what? What could he do? What will you let him do? Your thighs clamp together, your swollen clit desperately seeking the friction. Anything he wants. 

He scoots closer. It’s only a small movement but it feels like two feet of space between you just shrunk to two inches. 

“I could tell you,” he says quietly. “How I’d do it. If you want.”

Your breath catches. You should stop this. But, suddenly, you absolutely have to know how he would do it.

Like between the silent night, and the snow globe effect of the fresh flakes falling out the window, nothing hushed in the privacy of these sheets would see the light of day tomorrow. Nothing seems to exists outside of his moment.

This second.

“How?” 

Your voice is so quiet. Hardly a whisper, but you may has well have yelled it. He’s quiet for a minute, and you hold your breath. 

“Better,” he says, “Better than them.” 

“Riveting,” you deadpan, rolling onto your side, turning your back to him. Now, you feel like an idiot. “Thank you, thank you so much for that.”

He laughs, his shoulders shaking the mattress beneath you. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“Oh, listen to you!” he teases, “you really want to hear, don’t you? You’re curious! I told you — that’s good. Healthy. Remember?”

“Maybe you’re actually shit in bed,” you shoot back over your shoulder. “Because if you think this is dirty talk, you’re fucking awful at it.” 

“Really,” he says flatly. “You’re not wet in the slightest right now?”

“Nope,” you lie, squeezing your thighs tighter together. 

“Oh, okay,” he says lightly. “So, you wouldn’t mind if I checked, then?”

“W-what?” You sputter, “Harrington, you’re not…”

You trail off as his large palm finds the curve of your waist underneath the sheets. 

“Oh, why not?” he murmurs, voice in your ear, rich with a false sympathy that has your lashes fluttering closed. His fingers ghost over your ribs, inching lower. “You could prove me wrong right now, right?”

You bite back a whimper, and force yourself to stay still. Maybe if you don’t react, he’ll think you’re unaffected. 

“Unless, of course,” he continues, his long fingers blazing a fresh trail of heat and arousal straight towards your flooded core, “you are…”

Wow. You were wrong. He really is good at this. He’s played you just now, hasn’t he?

Because how else did you get in this predicament? And why do you want your best friend’s hands down your pants so fucking bad you can’t think straight?

“W-why do you assume I’m w-wet?” you ask, breathless. “Are—are you hard?”

“What?” He scoffs. “Fuck— no.”

His hand slides over the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up, and your back arches into his touch despite yourself. 

“Then why’d you say no like it was a question?” You ask.

“I didn’t!”

Oh, he absolutely did. He’s fucking hard right now, isn’t he?

Your hand reaches out and and smacks his chest playfully. But instead of pulling away like you should, you linger. His chest is so warm through his shirt.

He groans softly, and your breath stutters as your hand seems to take on a will of its own, sliding down his abdomen, grazing his abs. You just want to see…

“Fuck,” Steve exhales. “If you get to touch me, I get to touch you.”

You bite your lip. You know exactly what he’ll find if his hand goes any lower. But you’re too far gone to care.

Envisioning feeling him hard against your hand, even as he swears he’s not, is just too intoxicating of a thought. His fingers hover at the waistband of your sleep shorts, driving you insane.

Your legs spread an inch. Then, another. 

“Fine,” you find yourself saying. “On the count of three, we’ll both check. Just one touch. To see who’s right.” 

“Deal,” he says, breathless. “Three…”

With renewed vigor, your hand searches for him in the dark. He stays still as your fingers slides over his stomach, pulling up his sleep shirt to graze along the faint trail of hair, but hisses when your hand catches at the elastic band of his underwear. 

“Two,” you pant. 

The room stills. The only sounds are your shared, uneven breathing — both of you holding yourselves back from writhing into each other’s hovering hands.

“One.” 

The moment your fingers slip beneath the seam of his underwear, the hot, swollen head of his cock meets your touch. But you can barely even register this before his fingers drag between your slick folds. 

You both groan quietly in unison. God, his hand feels so good. You’re clit feels so tight, so aching and sensitive. 

You slide your hand lower, fingers brushing his shaft. It’s…long. Silky. And so fucking hard. 

His fingers search eagerly for your clit, and when he swipes the pad of his thumb over it, you practically see stars.  

Oh, shit. Only checking, remember? Once you were proved right, you were supposed to drag your hand out, shoot him a smug smile, and roll over and fall asleep. 

Yeah right. 

“Knew—knew it,” he grunts.

You bury your face in your pillow to muffle a moan. “I fuck— told you…you’re so hard.” 

You’ve never had anyone touch you like this. Circling your clit so achingly slow. He’s touching you like he’s dreamed of it. Like even if he never gets another opportunity like this, he can’t stop himself from just savoring you. 

Steve’s cock is hot and silky in your hand and you wish there were more light so you could see him. He’s long and thick, just like you imagined. 

He pants under your arm, hips lifting into your palm like he can’t help it. 

Damn you, but you want even more. 

But you can’t.

You can’t do any of this.

“Steve,” you whimper, making sure to keep your voice down. “This is a-against the rules. We can’t—”

“Y-yeah?” He stammers. You can’t stop yourself from curling your fingers around his hard shaft and stroking him firmly from base to tip. Just once. “What were the rules again? Tell me…”

Your thoughts fall from your mind like those snowflake shadows on the ceiling. There, and then gone again. What were they again? There were three of them…right?

“I’m not k-kissing you,” he pants, “and you invited me into this bed with you, so that one’s already broken— oh, holy s-shit— ”

You’re supposed to defend yourself right now right?

“I didn’t — mmmmphh.” 

He slides his fingers deep through your folds again, the broad tip of his middle finger catching on your dripping entrance, causing your hips to arch up to meet his palm. The pillow rustles under your head as you tip your head back against it, lips dropping open in a silent cry.

This is better than sex. 

“We’re not breaking any rules unless…” he whispers, sounding positively wrecked. “You’re catching feelings for me?”

There’s an edge to his voice. Like he’s both hopeful and terrified in equal measure, waited with bated breath for your reply. 

But his fingers don’t stop. They keep that slow, steady pressure, coaxing you higher and higher until your body’s begging for release.

You brush your thumb over him just to find he’s leaking precum for you, and your mouth waters. That makes you free fall into fantasies of pulling his sweatpants down, easing your aching body down under the blankets, and feeling him pulse against your tongue.

What would he taste like? What sounds would he make? Would you have to smother his face into the pillow just to keep him quiet?

Fuck, what was the question, again?

“Ace,” he murmurs. 

He sounds positively wrecked, like the nickname isn’t your name at all, but rather, a confession. It breaks something inside you. The realization crashing down on you like bucket of ice water. 

Your eyes fly open.

You jerk your hand away at the fact same time he withdraws his, and you both scramble to opposite sides of the bed, breathing hard. 

“Steve,“ you gasp.

“I know," he says quickly. 

Stuck there between your rumpled sleep shirts and messy hair, is the glaringly obvious knowledge that if this even happens once, things could never go back to normal between you. 

“I know,” he says again, softer and resigned. 

The bridge of your nose burns with how badly you want it. Want him. 

But it’s too risky. There’s too much at stake. Every relationship you’ve ever been in has been a catastrophe. A wreck. Something you’ve had to recover from over and over again. 

Still, a little voice in your head begs you to do it anyway. Steve’s different. He’s so different. It would be different this time!

But instead, you force yourself to lay back down, keeping as much distance as possible between your body and his. Trying your best to forget the raging ache in your core, hot and pulsing with the need for release.

You try not to pay attention to how long it takes Steve’s breathing to return to normal, or the way his hand twitches on top of the comforter, like he’s unsure if he should reach for you or not. 

It would be so easy to give in. To let him worship your body. Explore him the way you’ve always fantasized about. Treat him the way he deserves to be treated.

But, you can’t do that. Because you can’t risk him. You can’t lose him. You could lose everyone else, but not him. 

Not him. 

─── ✻ ───

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✻ go to landing page

You fly out of bed, run to the mirror to check your hair, and wince at your reflection. After hastily smoothing a hand over it, combing through the strands until they look somewhat decent, you rush to your desk and yank open the drawer to find your makeup bag.

You fumble with it for a second, and as you lean toward the mirror to swipe on tinted chapstick, you lock eyes with yourself.

What are you doing? It’s Steve! He’s seen your messy hair and bare face before — lots of times actually. In the cafeteria at breakfast, in the library during late-night study sessions, a 3am Waffle House run.

Look at you, standing in a ratty oversized sleep shirt and boxers, putting on makeup for Steve Harrington. 

You roll your eyes and shove your makeup back into the drawer. You’re being ridiculous. Completely overthinking things. 

So, why is your heart racing as you open the door to the landing?

The stairs creak beneath your feet as you hurry downstairs.The smell of coffee and burnt bacon reaches your nose and you smile to yourself. Dad must've cooked breakfast this morning.

But when you round the corner into the kitchen, nothing could have prepared you for the sight that greets you. 

Your mom’s standing by the oven, hands twisted inside Steve’s sweater as they work together to tug it up and off his head. His entire torso is exposed, a smattering of dark hair ghosting his chest, and you watch his abs clench and flex as he tries to free himself from the garment. 

Mom’s…not really helping. She’s trying, yeah, but she’s too busy laughing her ass off.

“I’m sorry, honey!” Mom wheezes to Steve, “I could’ve sworn this one would fit. You’re just so damn big!”

“Ummm,” you say from the doorway, “Do I even want to know?” 

Both of them turn towards you, but Steve can’t see you due to his head and arms still trapped inside his prison of gold yarn. 

“Darlin’,” Mom giggles, “Steve didn’t bring an ugly sweater for the party. I was tryin’ to find him one, but—”

“Yes I did!” Steve defends from inside the sweater, muscles rolling, hands flexing as he tries to wrestle it off. 

You rest your hip on the counter and cross your arms with a smirk, content to watch him struggle. “Let me guess. It wasn’t ugly enough.”

“Enough?” Mom scoffs. “He walks out in this plaid thing—” she gestures to a discarded green-and-red checked crewneck on the floor “— and I said, ‘Honey, you look like you could walk a runway.’”

“It’s from the eighties!” the sweater argues.

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “Papaw Ben judges the sweaters, and he loves the eighties. Nothing about that decade could be ugly to him."

Mom shakes her head and throws her hands off Harrington as if he’s a lost cause. 

“Here,” you say, pushing off the counter to go help him. “Stop struggling.” 

It only takes a few tugs in the right places to free his chin, and from there he easily takes over. A blur of gold fabric brushes over your eyes and then he’s right there. 

All soft brown eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. 

He smiles crookedly. “Morning.”

“I’ll let you two give each other a proper greeting,” Mom whispers, then ducks out of the room like if she’s a second late, she’ll stop Harrington here from turning you around and taking you against the kitchen counter. 

God forbid. 

You turn away quickly, hiding your blush at the mental image by busying yourself with pouring a cup of coffee. 

When you peek back over at him, he's looking at your legs. You follow his gaze. Your oversized sleep shirt falls past your pajama boxers, leaving your legs exposed — and making it look a little like you’re not wearing pants at all. 

You clear your throat and turn back to your coffee. “What are you doing?”

“Just a little light reading,” Steve says casually.

Confused, you risk a glance in his direction. A yellowed paperback has appeared in his hand, and he angles the cover towards you so you can read the title. 

Breaking In The New Cowgirl. 

Jesus, Mom. 

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle escapes you. “Where’d you find that one?”

“Behind the toaster.”

You hum conspiratorially. The spoon clinks against your mug as you swirl in a dash of creamer. Almost perfect. Just missing the sprinkle of cinnamon you always add. 

You eye the spice cabinet hesitantly. Steve’s standing in front of it, arms crossed over his naked chest, eyes pinned to the page like he’s actually reading the thing. 

 Just…reach over him. It’s not a big deal. 

You start to lean over but suddenly his eyes snap to yours and you’re close enough to count his lashes, to feel the warmth radiating off him. 

His eyes drop to your lips.

“Sorry,” you mutter breathlessly, “Just have to get—”

As you reach behind him, you accidentally brush his skin. He’s solid beneath your forearm, dark chest hair grazing your wrist. It’s a fleeting touch — barely anything at all — but it strikes a spark deep in your belly.

He hums, sliding over just enough to block you completely. “Looking for this?”

He’s holding the cinnamon. 

You attempt to school your expression, even as a dangerous warmth curls under your ribs. 

He knows how you take your coffee. 

Your hand snatches it from his a little too quickly, and your fingers brush. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but that’s long enough for the warmth of his hand to burn into your skin, and you watch as he drags the backs of his knuckles across his smirking lips. 

You spring backward, heart hammering, and put the kitchen island between the two of you as a barrier while you prepare your coffee exactly to your liking. 

He clears his throat. “Okay, listen to this.”

The pages of the dime-store novel flutter as he readjusts against the counter, folding his arms back over his chest the opposite way this time. Like he’s preparing to give a scholarly reading from an ancient, sacred text. 

“‘Please,’” He reads dramatically, “‘Tie me up, Jake!’” Amber whimpers. “I need to feel...out of control.’”

“Oh my God, stop,” you plead, but he just shushes you before continuing.

“‘Jake’s thrusts slow as he looks around the stable. ‘Don’t have anythin’ to tie you up with in here, sweetness.’”

Steve flips the page, nodding along as if impressed by the prose. You roll your eyes and briefly consider clamping your hands over your ears.

“‘Yes you do,’” she pants. ‘No true cowboy’s ever without…his lasso!’” He looks up at you, eyes widening briefly as if to say, Wow. Hot, right?

“No wonder my mother loves you.” You mutter under your breath as you bring your coffee to your lips. 

The book is horrible, of course. Absolutely atrocious. And yet — you’re reeling a little over the fact that Steve is standing here, drenched in morning sunlight, reading a sex scene out loud to you. 

Shirtless. 

You take a long, obnoxiously loud slurp of coffee, hoping it might wake you up from this dream you’re obviously still in. 

Steve tilts the book toward you slightly, chin dipped, like he’s offering to continue. A lock of hair falls over his eyes. 

“Want me to read what happens next?”

His eyes sparkle with mischief and a little…oh fuck, is Steve flirting with you right now?

He is. Well, of course he is. He is supposed to be acting like your boyfriend, and all. 

God, but he’s being so cheeky and annoying, and completely and totally…himself. He was right. You thought this would feel different. More like playing a part, a version of yourself that doesn’t exist. But he’s right here. Existing. And why does this version of him make you hot all over? 

“I’m…going to go get dressed,” you announce, making a beeline out of the kitchen and for the stairs.

Mom is heading down just as you round the corner to go up. 

“Look! I think I found Steve an ugly sweater, and —” She trails off, eyes locking on her face. “Oh, c’mere, honey,” 

You blink as she reaches down and pinches your cheeks. Then, she proceeds to lick her thumb and roll it across your eyebrow.

“Gross!” You rear back. “Mom — quit!” 

“Well,” she huffs, smiling. “Just tryin’ to get a lil pink in your cheeks, baby girl. You want your boyfriend seein’ you like this?” She lifts a limp piece of hair off your sleep shirt.

And there’s that voice again. You’re not good enough. Not pretty enough for Steve.

“Mom! Stop — Steve isn’t going to leave me over my mascara-less face.” 

“True,” she muses, “But he might over that drool on your cheek.”

What? 

Your hand flies to your face, mortified, but there’s nothing there. 

“We leave in an hour.” Mom adds with a wink, brushing past you, probably off to help Steve into that new sweater before getting Sam ready to go. 

You rush upstairs to get ready, cursing her under your breath the entire way. 

─── ✻ ───

You’d almost forgotten how loud these parties got. 

Your Mom's parent's house — a sprawling three-story lodge built into a pine-filled hillside —  is plenty big enough to host the massive annual Christmas party for both sides of your extended family. 

But even with peals of children’s laughter from outside, pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, and multiple boisterous conversations, (not to mention the obnoxiously loud Christmas music blasting,) you can still hear every fucking word of Steve’s conversation with your cousin, Banks from across the room. 

Since piling into your dad’s station wagon with your entire family and making the twenty-minute drive over here, Steve jumped right in.

You watched from the corner of your eye as he talked easily with your cousin Jenna, who’s about ready to pop with her third baby. Then you overheard him ask how the twins were doing. 

He remembered she had a set of twins, probably three years old now. 

You told him about them once or twice — maybe when they were both in the hospital with bronchitis a couple years ago. But, he remembered. 

How did he remember that?

After an hour or so of catching up with a few of your many cousins, you went searching for Steve again. You eventually found him in the library. Ed's dad, Granddad, sat in his recliner, book in hand, talking Steve’s ear off, and you were about to intercept for him until you noticed how Steve was standing.

Both hands on his hips. Chin tipped down. Leaning in, the way he does when he wants to catch every word you’re saying. 

The sight made your breath catch a little. Made your temple bump softly into the doorframe as you watched the heartwarming scene unfold. 

Steve’s acting like…like he really belongs here. Not just your arm candy, meant to be paraded around. He’s not stuck to your side cracking jokes about your obvious lack of a love life until him. He’s not acting like your shield for your family, either.

He’s actually…here. Talking with everyone, like he wants to be. 

And you can’t figure out why watching him do it is making your insides go all gooey.

But then your stomach dropped as you remembered the isn’t real. He’s just acting. Playing a good boyfriend for you. Because next year, he won’t be here. 

Aunt Tiff found you in the hallway, hugged your neck, then steered you toward the kitchen to help prep dinner. You let her — grateful for the distraction, and the excuse to not think about the consequences of your own actions for a little while.

You made an entire pan of stuffing, only to be promptly shooed away the moment it was done to go “be with your lover.” Their exact words. 

So, you wandered into your favorite room of the house. Which is where you find yourself now. 

It’s gigantic, for one. Four low-backed leather couches sit in a square toward the back of the room, in front of a luxurious gas fireplace built into the far wall.  Tall windows take up a good percent of both walls, and off to one side, sits a full wood-topped bar, built into the room specifically for events like this.

The high ceilings allow for a Christmas tree — an incredible Fraser fir — to tower at least twelve feet in the air, decked with tinsel and strung with twinkling lights.

Your Mom’s dad, Papaw Ben, made some pretty good investments back in the day. He built this house on the best land for Christmas trees, boasting over a hundred acres of them and selling them like candy to everyone in town every single year. And he always puts the best of the lot in this room. 

So, yeah. This room’s your favorite. 

And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Steve’s over there, sitting comfortably on one of the barstools, chatting with your cousin, Banks. 

He looks great, framed by the cool winter light streaming through the window behind him and the warm glow of the fireplace catching on his skin. Handsome as ever in a tan sweater with a reindeer face stitched on the front, a big red pompom acting as Rudolph’s nose.

Mom couldn’t find him an uglier one? Maybe it is really ugly, but he’s just so fucking gorgeous you hardly even notice. He is so not winning the ugliest sweater competition this year. 

What are you even doing right now? 

You’re supposed to be acting like his girlfriend, you know.  You should be able to stride over there and seamlessly dip into the conversation, rest a loving hand on his shoulder, maybe dropping a kiss to his cheek in greeting. 

But something keeps you at the edge of the wide, doorless entryway instead, eavesdropping.

“…lemme toss you up a little something,” Banks says, smirking. “What’s your drink of choice, Stevie boy?” 

LA looks good on him. His hair’s a little shorter, a little blonder. He’s working part-time as a bartender at a fancy place downtown, and he seems really happy now that he’s finally moved in with his boyfriend, Lane.

It was a whole thing last year, because everyone thought they hated each other. The neighbor from hell, Lane was referred to for a few months at once point. But apparently, it was just an enemies-to-lovers situation. 

Or so Mom says.

“Whatever you’ve got, man,” Steve replies, knocking once on the wood bartop. “Doesn’t have to be fancy.”

“C’mon,” Banks complains. “Let me show off a little. It’s free booze, and Papaw’s bribed me with a check for acting school next semester if I can successfully keep everyone plastered with my ‘fancy LA drinks.’”

“Oh yeah?” Steve says. “Alright. Show me what you got.”

Banks does a little fist pump and you smother an eye roll from across the room.

“So,” Banks asks casually as he mixes a drink, “How long you two been dating for? I know you’ve been…close…for awhile.”

You freeze. 

You didn’t tell Steve how long you’ve officially been together, did you? You told your mom two months on a panicked whim — but forgot to tell him? Idiot. It’s becoming painfully clear you don’t know how to fake-date your best friend. 

You listen closer, barely daring to breathe. 

“Depends on who you ask,” Steve shrugs. “Ace and I don’t exactly agree on when things…changed.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. 

“Oh yeah?” Banks grins, sliding Steve’s finished drink across the bartop with practiced ease. “She told us about that nickname, you know. How she got it.”

“She did?” Steve’s head snaps up toward him.

“Sure did. Told everybody the whole poker story a couple Christmases back.”

Oh, God. Okay, time to infiltrate. 

“She’s been in love with you for like, forever, man,” Banks adds, lifting his eyes just in time to catch you striding forward. He turns back to Steve with a smirk. “Not that I can blame her.”

Your eyes narrow, and for a split second you consider turning around out of pure spite, but you’re already halfway there, so you commit and stomp up to the bar.

“Banks,” you coo mockingly, “my mom’s already tried to get Steve shirtless this morning. I really need everyone to stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

You realize your mistake the second the words leave your mouth. 

Steve’s eyes snap to yours, widening a fraction, jaw going slack before he lunges for his drink, hiding his expression behind a long swallow.

Boyfriend. That's the first time you've called him that. 

It just rolled off your tongue so easily, you barely even noticed. Fuck. Why is it so easy to say? And why does it make your stomach fill with butterflies?

Heat floods your cheeks, so you lean over the bar, disguising your flustered state as curiosity while you scan the drink options. 

Banks laughs and catches your chin, tilting your face up so he can look at you. 

“Wow, you guys must’ve just gotten together,” he says smugly. “Am I right? You’re blushing!”

“No!” you sputter, pulling back. “I’m not! It’s been—”

“Oh my god,” Banks groans, drawing out the words. “I miss those early days of a new relationship. Dude, the sex alone in those first few months—”

Steve chokes on his drink. You stare at Banks, briefly considering whether you could sprint to the kitchen and stick your face in the freezer before returning to this conversation. 

“What?” Banks chortles, cutting himself off when he takes in the sight of you both. “Oh, Steve, it’s okay!” Banks adds, reaching over to pat Steve’s back a few solid times as his coughs die off. “We aren’t super shy about these things. I mean, with all the romance authors in this family, you kind of have to get comfortable with listening to —”

“Wait,” Steve interrupts, clearing his throat. “How many are there? I thought it was just one.”

Banks looks at you, then back at Steve. “Yeah, no. We have like six. Right? Six? Is that right?”

“I can’t keep count anymore.” You lift your hands in surrender. “All I know is I need a drink.”

“Right,” Banks says, shooting you a conspiratorial look as he reaches down for another glass.“What’ll you have?”

A tapping sound comes from the window behind him. Your eyes snap up to see Sam peeking over the sill. He bangs on the glass again, and you wave at him, grinning. A snowball suddenly smacks into his temple. Snowflakes explode across his red cheeks and tangle in his blond hair.

He cackles and scoops up some snow in his mittened hands, hurling it back at his cousins. 

“Gin and tonic,” Steve says to Banks before you can answer his question. “That’s her favorite.”

You whip your head to glare at Steve. He meets your gaze with a playful smirk. You hate Gin. But he knows that. 

“Make me a martini, Banks,” you say, still looking at Steve. “The strongest one you can manage.”

Banks sucks in air through his teeth. “I make a mean dirty martini. You sure you can handle it?”

Your eyes stay locked with Steve’s as your lips tilt up into a smirk and you murmur, “The dirtier the better.”

─── ✻ ───

It feels wrong to call the meal you’re sharing, dinner. It’s not dinner.

It’s a fucking feast. 

Two tables have been assembled in your favorite room, running lengthwise down the wood floor, dressed in rich scarlet tablecloths and dotted with tea-light centerpieces. Another massive table has been set up in the next room over for all the kids.

They complain about being dragged in from the snow, but their protests die out quickly as the smell of glazed ham and pecan pie fill their noses. Jackets, mittens, and scarves are shed haphazardly as eager little bodies with numb fingers and toes shove through the crowd to get first dibs on the warm food. 

Someone finally turns down the holiday cheer music — thank God — and soft Christmas jazz drifts through the space instead. 

Steve’s seated beside you at the very end of the table, with a crowd of your grandparents and parents. 

It feels good not to be sitting at the lonely singles table across the room this year. You raise your glass toward Banks, who’s sitting next to your cousin, Brielle by the bar. They both flip you off in unison. 

You smile. It’s been far too long since you’ve been home to see them.  

“What the—” Steve jerks and ducks his head under the table. “Oh! Hi, buddy!”

Confused, you cast a quick look around before following him beneath the tablecloth. A black cat winds around his feet, blinking up at him with wide yellow eyes. 

“That’s Molly,” you chuckle as you straighten, tossing her a bit of warm chicken from your plate. “Crystal’s sister.”

“Really?” Steve rises with you, glancing around the table a little sheepishly. “Didn’t know Crystal had siblings.”

“Just one,” Dad calls from a few seats over. “Found the momma in Granddad’s garage one night a few years back.”

“She looked coked out.” Grandmom says from her seat beside him.

“Oh my God, Mom!” Aunt Amy scolds, but she’s hiding a lipsticked grin behind her wine glass. “You can’t say shit like that!”

“Why not? She did!” Grandmom replies. “Looked like him in the 80’s.” She points a wrinkled finger over at your dad. 

Dad just winks, a devilish twinkle in his eye. Steve huffs a quiet laugh beside you. 

“So, we brought her over here.” Grandmom says to Steve, “Turns out she was knocked up, so we named the two kittens after their mom.” She gestures nonchalantly as if it’s perfectly logical. “Molly and Crystal.”

“Steve,” Aunt Amy chimes in, all false lashes and perfect teeth. “Just know, we’re usually not this weird, okay? You’ve caught us at a bad time. You see, my son, Banks, he’s a bartender from LA now, and he’s got these strong drinks—”

“That’s okay, Amy.” Steve says gently, raising his glass of ice water to her in salute. “I’m familiar with Banks and his phenomenal drinks.”

“Well, good,” she says, satisfied, leaning back as if that’s all settled now. 

You chuckle to yourself. You thought he’d be different than this. Bashful and flustered, completely unable to deal with your family’s nonexistent filters and unhinged one-liners. 

But, why shouldn’t you have expected it? He is your best friend after all, and he puts up with your crazy pretty well. 

He just fits in so naturally here. Like he belongs. 

A few minutes later, Steve bumps your shoulder with his. 

“Okay,” he mutters, “So what’s the strategy here? I can’t eat another bite, but your aunt keeps bringing me another plate. Look. ”

Four plates lay in front of him. Two of them are scraped clean, the other two have more food on them. Like he tried to pick off them to be polite, but just couldn’t do it anymore. 

You laugh softly. “She loves to feed people, Steve. It’s her love language or some shit.”

“No that’s fine, but like —” His eyes widen “I’m full.”

“Full?” You mock, “A six-foot-two man is full? Aunt Tiff’s never heard of that.”

He tries to hide a grimace, but fails terribly. 

Eventually, after watching him sneakily hand larger and larger bites of food down to Molly under the table, begging her to rescue him, you take pity on the guy. 

The next time Aunt Tiff appears at his side, her curvy body looming over Steve’s chair as she checks on the progress of his plate, you elbow him in the ribs. He hisses, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans further into you.

God, he’s warm under that sweater, and he smells so good — clean and masculine. 

“You have to be kind of direct,” you whisper. 

“Tried that already,” Steve mutters through clenched teeth, careful not to move his lips in any way Tiff might notice. 

“Not like that,” you whisper back. “Here— I’ll show you a trick, Harrington. Watch and learn.”

You reach behind Steve and tap Tiff’s arm to get her attention as she tries to hand him yet another plate. 

“Go easy on him, Tiff,” you say, “If he’s too full he won’t have room for dessert. Later.”

 She blinks at you,  so you widen your eyes until it finally clicks for her.

“Well, baby doll,” she laughs, smacking Steve on the shoulder, “why didn’t you just say so?”

She saunters off to inspect someone else’s plate, and Steve turns to you slowly, eyes wide.  

“What just happened?”

You shrug coyly, avoiding his gaze. “If it wasn’t obvious, I’m dessert.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Steve’s jaw slacken in shock. “No it wasn’t fucking obvious. Your family has some secret sex code language now?”

You laugh at that. You laugh so hard some wine spills from your glass and splashes onto your hand. Steve’s eyes track the spill, and he chuckles too, grabbing a napkin to dab you clean.

“Can’t have me too full to perform later, is that it? Can’t have me passin’ out on the couch before you can get what you want from me?” he whispers, with a teasing smile in his voice, low enough that no one else can hear. 

You gasp at his boldness, still laughing, as your eyes meet. 

The room seems to tilt around you as you stare up at him. If you were a different person, — a better person—  you could lean in and kiss him right now. 

But you don’t. Because you’re not.

You both look away at the same time. Eventually, the tension fades into something familiar and companionable, like it always does with the two of you, and you listen to the many conversations happening around you at the same time. 

You’ve almost finished your wine when a heavy warmth settles on your thigh. You don’t even have to look down this time. You know it’s his hand. 

Between the roaring fire, the wine warming your belly, and Banks’ stupidly strong martini, his hand feels at least ten degrees hotter than it should. But it’s a delicious heat. The kind that sirs up deep urges and sets fantasies loose in your mind. 

Maybe you’re just touch-starved. It’s been awhile since you’ve gotten laid. Six months, at least. 

That has to be it. 

Steve’s hand moves. His thumb strokes over the curve of your knee once. Twice. 

This touch is different from yesterday’s. Where that one was gentle and grounding, a reassuring message, this touch is molten. Fiery and dangerous. Like it’s meant to test you in every way possible. 

But even while you fight to keep your expression neutral, Steve easily slips into the conversation, nodding along to Uncle Joel’s dramatic retelling of the year Aunt Deb almost set the Christmas tree on fire. 

His thumb moves again, sweeping higher, your breath hitches. The touch is so hot, so branding, you swear the heat of his palm’s going to burn your nylon stockings right through, melding it to your thighs permanently.  

When the edge of his pinky slips under your short plaid skirt, you almost lose the ability to hear anything but the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears. 

He leans in over your shoulder, and that lock of hair falls in his eyes. 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers. 

You should. You know you should. Why don’t you want to? You don’t know. You don’t know fucking anything anymore. All you know is you never want his hand to leave your skin ever again. 

Laughter and boisterous debate fill the silence between you as his hand inches up even further. You have to press your empty wine glass to your lips to smother a gasp when his fingers brush over the central seam of your stockings, ghosting against your soaked panties in a fleeting touch. 

He exhales softly. It’s barely a sound at all, but it rattles through your bones like a freight train. 

Then his hand is gone. Slipping back off your thigh before disappearing back in his lap. 

You choke out a sigh of both disappointment and relief. 

“W-what do you think y-ou’re playing at, Harrington?” You whisper, blushing furiously. 

Steve’s eyes flick over your face, then he smiles. That smug, irritating, cheeky grin makes you ache to wipe it straight off his mouth. Maybe with yours.

He leans back, wipes his mouth with his napkin, and as he stands, he murmurs low in your ear, “You didn’t stop me.”

You didn’t, did you. God, how are you making this so complicated already? It’s only day two, and already things feel like they’re never going to be the same.

But before you can reply, he swipes your empty plate from the table. Then, gathers all of his own, and several others down the line, stacking them into a ridiculous tower as he heads for the kitchen.

You can hear him arguing with Aunt Tiff the entire way, insisting he wants to help, swearing they aren’t that heavy, begging her to sit down and eat her Christmas dinner. 

Nan leans over across the table toward you, face warm in the twinkling light. 

“You got lucky, baby,” she says sweetly, “He’s a keeper.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

He is.

But he’s not yours to keep. 

─── ✻ ───

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His shitty parents decided to skip town last minute on some last minute trip to a ski resort in Colorado and just assumed Steve would be with friends over the winter break. Either from Purdue, where you both attend, or with the group he’d hung out with in high school, all of whom he still sees regularly. 

He glances over at you, “C’mon, you talk about this cottage all the time. Now, I get to see it!”

“Not about that,” you clarify, “I was talking about…the other part.”

“Oh, you mean the part where we pretend to be dating?” He teases. You roll your eyes.

“What?” He shrugs, lips tipping up in a smirk as he looks over at you again. “You can’t even say it, can you? It’s only for a few days, Ace. Not a big deal.”

Ace. A nickname from the first time you met. At freshman orientation at Purdue, they hosted a poker night, and you joined in for a round, beating Harrington with a pair of pocket aces. It stuck. 

You rub your palms on your jeans and look out the window, gazing unseeing into the gray, overcast sky.

A few whole days, pretending to be Steve Harrington’s girlfriend. The way he says ‘not a big deal’ puts you on edge. Like you’re only one that thinks fake dating your best friend for Christmas is insane.

"It's — it's just, my mom,” you defend. “You know how she is.”

He shakes his head as he shifts gears, “Nah, Kristy already loves me. I mean, what's not to love? I'm charming, charismatic, — “

"Yeah, yeah,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "But, she likes you a little too much. She's been pushing for us to get together since she met you first semester freshman year. I’m sure, if we had known each other in high school she would’ve begged you to go out with me.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’m so glad we didn’t date back then.”

You laugh nervously. Just talking about dating him is more than your body can handle.

“Shut up.”

"It's true!" he insists, “If we had, you would've taken one look at me in my Scoops Ahoy uniform and dumped me on the spot."

You look out the window at the blur of green and white trees and smile. You didn’t know him back then, that was the year before he came to Purdue. But, you’ve seen pictures of him in the outfit, thanks to his friend Robin who also works at the local radio station with him. 

 "I don't know,” you muse, “That outfit’s kinda sexy.”

“Your pants are on fire,” he quips, turning up the volume on the old dash. 

An old Christmas song plays through the speakers and he hums along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, like everything’s just fine and dandy. The timber of his voice fills your ears and your seat suddenly feels too warm, too confining. 

You reach over and adjust the vents, turning the heat away from you. 

“Okay, but Steve,” you say, “if we’re going to do this — and I mean really do this— we need to set some ground rules.”

His long fingers reach across the console to turn down the volume so he can hear you better, and the sleeve of his red sweater brushes your arm. When his eyes snap to yours, there’s an amused sparkle in them that makes your breath catch for reasons you can’t explain. 

“Ground rules? Seriously?” he asks incredulously, but he’s smiling. 

“Yes, seriously. This is serious.”

The car slows to a complete stop at a stop sign, and the soft click of the blinker fills the silence as you wait for his reply. He makes a right over the icy road and the clicking stops. “Well, lets’s hear ‘em then.”

You already made the list in your mind, going over them and refining over and over, but you chew on your lip for a few moments, so he would think you were thinking of them on the spot. 

“First, no sharing a bed.”

“No bed sharing.” He repeats, but there’s a smirk in his tone. You refuse to look at him, instead busying yourself with the blur of snowy trees outside the window. “Got it. I’ll sleep with Crystal, then.”

“You’re not stealing my cat, Steve,” you laugh.

Warmth blooms in your chest at the thought of the little white fur ball waiting for you at the cottage. You haven’t been home in ages, so your Dad promised to bring Crystal along so you could spend time with her over the holidays. “I’m sure Mom will find you an extra bed.”

“Fine,” Steve says, “But when Crystal inevitably chooses my bed instead of yours, I call little spoon. Next?”

You would laugh at his joke, but the next rule is already on the tip of your tongue, and you heart pounds as you open your mouth to say it out loud. 

“No kissing.”

“No kissing?”

“Yes. No kissing.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, but his thumb starts tapping the steering wheel with the same tic he has when he’s about to cue up the next song in the studio. Waiting for just the right moment.

“How are we supposed to pull this off without kissing?” He asks, his voice inexplicably deeper. "You’ve kissed me before.”

Your stomach flips. “Um, I didn’t kiss you! You kissed me. And—”

“Actually,” he cuts in, “It was a mutual kiss. Sort of a—” he straightens both hands out on top of the steering wheel and pulls them together in a clapping motion, “— both-of-us thing.”

“God, I can’t believe you remember that,” you breathe. 

“Hey, hey, you do too!” he counters. “You just admitted to it.”

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. That was ages ago, and the two of you haven’t talked about it since. Not once. And for some reason, just the fact that you have never broached the subject again makes the moment that more impactful of a memory. 

“Okay, but I was drunk,” you defend, “And you— and it was dark, I could hardly even see you, and —” You cut yourself off, cheeks heating. 

He chuckles softly. 

“Shut up, okay?” You rush to gain control of the conversation again, “Just — listen. My family is…weird about this. They’re like obsessed with me finding the love of my life, and I just need to get them to back off this year. You know how bad it is.”

He nods. “And why do you think that is?”

And, here comes therapist Harrington. God, he’s annoying sometimes. “I don’t know.” 

If you were being honest with yourself, you’d think about how your parents were high school sweethearts, married their first year of college, inseparable ever since. They live life like that, completely unaware of how anyone exists without being in love. They can’t imagine a life without their other half. 

But that life hasn’t happened for you. It’s different for you than it was for them. You know they just want you to be happy, but sometimes their pushing gets to be too much. So much, in fact, that you have to resort to drastic measures.

Hence, the man sitting beside you. 

Steve hums, glancing down to check the time in your drive. Twelve minutes. Your stomach flips again, and you nibble on your lip to mask your nerves. 

“God, you really are nervous, aren’t you?” he muses, looking over at you, and shifting gears again. You stare straight ahead and unclench your fists from their place in your lap.  

“Okay, let’s practice,” he says, clearing his throat. “Darlin’, why haven’t you found a nice guy? You know — had a relationship that lasts longer than a week or two? Such a darn shame, honey.”

“Stop that!” you reach over to swat at his shoulder, laughing at his poor adaptation of your mom’s Texas accent that’s only mildly faded since moving to Indiana for your dad’s work ten years ago.

You have a sneaky suspicion she practices her accent late at night while she watches her western shows, or reads those raunchy cowboy novels she’s always got lying all over the house. 

“Go ahead,” he prompts in his normal voice, ”Answer the question. Might help.”

You groan so he knows how annoying he’s being. He just widens his eyes and nods along at you, as if that would give you the hint to start talking. 

“Because,” you start hesitantly, “I’m just too picky.”

“Errrr,” he buzzes, like you're on a fucking game show. “Wrong answer! It’s because you only date—,” he taps out a quick drumroll on the steering wheel “—total douchebags.”

You shoot him an offended look. “I do not!”

“Oh yeah? What about Biker Boy? Such a thrill, ’til you found out he was only on campus to sell drugs.”

“Okay, but that was because he was —”

“I’m not done,” he interrupts, “Then there was the Partier. You remember him. The one you caught in bed with your roommate the one night you didn’t go out with him, remember that?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I know. That was not great, I—”

“Or, what about Baseball Guy?” he continues, “God, you tried so hard to like him, didn’t you? Until he became obsessed with you being his ‘lucky charm’, and all he cared about was winning. Made you wear his jersey to class, and demanded you were there at every game, no exceptions? Douchebag.”

You chew the inside of your cheek and risk a glance at him.

He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel now, eyes fixed straight ahead. His thick brown hair’s fallen just over his eyebrow again and he hasn’t raked his fingers through it yet. A tell-tale sign that he’s distracted.

His hair’s in his usual style today, pushed up and back, the front lifting just enough to catch the soft gray light outside, like he ran his hands through it once and somehow that’s all it took to look perfect. There’s a careless sort of confidence to it, and it suits him.

A part of you wishes you could have that kind of confidence, too. Maybe that’s why you were drawn to him in the first place. 

“I just don’t think you do it by accident,” he says, voice quiet. 

Your mouth drops open in shock, all thoughts of how good his hair looks fly out the window. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shifts in his seat and shrugs one shoulder, “You kinda…self-sabotage.”

“Okay, that is so not fair. I thought I had something with all of them, and then it’s not my fault I got cheated on, or Baseball Guy lost his game when I wasn’t there, or Biker Boy got arrested!”

When his eyes meet yours again, there’s no impatience there. Only a patient, understanding in his brown gaze that soothes your nerves.

“No, of course, it wasn’t.”

You settle back in your seat, somehow a little less tense. Eight minutes left. 

“But,” he adds, and there goes that hand raking back his hair. “All that shit you just said, kinda proves my point about them all being douche—”

“Okay, well what about you, King Steve?” You snap, “You haven’t really dated anyone in what? Three years? That’s a long fucking time! And not to mention, the last girl you dated dumped you for someone else, so I don’t think you get to tell me—”

“Jonathan and Nancy deserve each other,” he says without defensiveness. Then, quieter, he adds, “They’re good together. They make sense.”

“Okay, now you really do sound like my mom.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his knuckles across his mouth as it pulls into a grin. You study him from beneath your lashes. He was a mess after it happened, but now, he really does seem to be at peace with it. 

“Alright, any more rules I should know about?” he asks. 

Just one. 

The slushy sound of melting snow and gravel fills the silence between you as he turns into the long, winding driveway. Tall, leafless trees rise on both sides, their branches dusted with fresh snow, and arching overhead like a natural canopy.

The charming, storybook-style cottage you've spent the last eight Christmases of your life at rises into view. Soft golden light glows from the stone windows, edged in dark timber, spilling across the snow covered bushes in front. You notice dad’s made a fire in the fireplace as smoke rises from the old chimney, disappearing into the cold grey sky. 

Just say it. 

Just fucking say it. 

“No catching feelings.” 

The second the words leave your lips, something tightens in your chest. You hold your breath, waiting, desperate to hear what he’ll say. 

Steve’s quiet for a long moment as you eventually roll to a stop and he parks the car to the side of the cottage. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and quiet. “Guess that’d change things, wouldn't it?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Believe me, you don’t want to go there with me. I’m—I’m a train wreck when it comes to relationships.”

He hums. “I don’t believe you.”

What? He doesn’t believe you’re a train wreck? Or…he doesn’t believe that he doesn’t want to go there with you? You don’t get a chance to ask him what he means, because just was you open your mouth, the front door of the cottage slams open. 

A blur of yellow races past, followed by a small hand slapping against the driver’s side glass Steve rushes to open the door before your little brother puts his fist through his precious window. 

“Sam, man!” Steve laughs, “Get your greasy little fingers off my beauty, I just got her waxed!”

“Harry!” Sam squeals, bounding backward to give Steve space to climb out. 

Steve high-fives him, then turns in a slow circle, surveying the snowy grounds. He groans dramatically, stretching his arms out, muttering something about being too old for long car rides.

As he lifts his arms over his head, his red sweater rides up, exposing a toned midsection and a tapered V that leads down to a trimmed happy trail. Your eyes nearly bulge. 

You unbuckle quickly, practically flinging yourself from the passenger seat, heat rushing to your cheeks.

It’s not as if you’ve never seen Steve shirtless before — at the lake on a spring break trip, or at a shirts vs skins rugby game on campus. And you’ve always had a hard time not looking too closely. But, now, when you’re supposed to be acting like his girlfriend it feels…exciting in a way you can’t rationalize. 

Sam darts around the car to throw his arms around your middle. His puffy yellow coat zips along your palms as you drop to the ground to hug him back. 

“Missed you, Sammy.” You say into his dirty blonde hair.

“Missed you too,” he says, turning his head to look at you, brown eyes sparkling.  

“God, you’ve gotten so big,” you mutter, more to yourself than him. It’s only been about nine months since you were home last, but six-year-olds grow fast. 

“C’mon,” you say, taking his hand. “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here!”

As you round the car, Steve steps forward, and without hesitation, slides his hand into your free one like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“I’ll get our things in a bit.” He says, casually. 

You nod woodenly, mouth dry. His hand is so large and warm, fitting so perfectly against yours. You force your breath to steady as you climb the front porch steps. A bright squeal — not unlike Sam’s — sounds from inside and the red front door swings open just as you reach it. 

“My darlin's!” Mom squawks, throwing herself through the doorway, and tackling you and Steve into a group hug, which Sam happily joins, clinging to everyone’s legs. 

“Hi, Momma.” you say, smiling into her shoulder.

She smells like honey and cinnamon, probably from the delicious cinnamon rolls she bakes every Christmas. The scent loosens something in your chest, filling you with nostalgia. The warm, fuzzy kind, that makes you feel like a kid again.

You’re home.

And you’re with Steve.

And for some reason, your worlds colliding like this feels like the most natural, wonderful thing in the entire world. 

“Good to see you again, Mrs.—” Steve starts.

“Ah!” Mom pulls back and holds a hand inches from his face threateningly. “None of that. It’s Kristy.”

He stays completely still, only his eyes turn to look at you and they widen slightly. 

You laugh and give his hand a reassuring squeeze.

It’s instinctive, and you don’t even think about it, but the way his jaw drops just a fraction when he registers your touch sends butterflies erupting in your stomach. 

Oh, God. This is going to be a long five days. 

Inside, your suspicions are immediately confirmed. A fresh dish of warm, sticky cinnamon rolls sits on the long wooden counter. 

You let go of Steve’s hand to go grab one, partly because you haven’t eaten since breakfast, but also because your hand was starting to sweat being that close to him.

And nobody likes holding sweaty palms.

Right? 

You’re overthinking this already.

Sam beats you to the dish, sticking his tongue out at you as you reach for the same roll. The top right corner ones are the best. You tousle his hair and he races off with his prize. 

“Wow,” Steve breathes behind you.

 You turn, a second-best cinnamon roll raised halfway to your mouth, but he’s not looking at you. His mouth is slightly open as he cranes his neck to take in the tall A-frame cieling. 

“You never told me the cottage was a mansion, Ace!" 

Mom blushes, delighted, as she takes in Harrington’s awe. You narrow your gaze on her, but she just chews on a long pink nail suggestively and widens her eyes at you. 

The message is clear: He is cute. Don’t fuck it up.

You roll your eyes just as the pitter-patter of tiny paws sounds down the hall. You spin just in time to see a white fluff ball rocket around the corner. 

“Gotcha!” You scoop up your cat, pressing your face into her soft fur.

Crystal purrs loudly as you stroke her belly, the vibration steady and comforting under your fingers while Mom launches into a full blown tour of the cottage. Clearly for Steve, though there have been a few renovations since you were last here, so you follow along. 

The open-concept living room is the same, with a roaring fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the snowy forest. A dining room, complete with a full oak dining table sits nestled next to the entryway. Outside, a new stone patio boasts a built-in fire pit and new grill.

Two bedrooms branch off the hall behind the kitchen, hosting your parents’ room on one side, and Sam’s on the other, with a bathroom at the end. 

Upstairs, there are two more rooms. One, is your bedroom. The other is Dad’s office — better known as The Lair, — and it’s the exact same as the last time you saw it. 

Dad isn’t in here, but the walls show every sign he’s been spending time here recently, writing his next romance bestseller.

A soft lamp illuminates his walls that are covered in a messy array of notes, photos, and red yarn pinned into sprawling story maps that always remind you of a crime scene.

The room smells like wood, paper, and old coffee, and it pulls you straight back into your childhood. Several half-empty mugs already crowd the desk, even though they’ve only been here for a day prior to your arrival. 

“This is his writing hat!” Sam announces, strutting over to the hat rack and pulling on a newsboy cap. The brim slips down over his face like a lopsided cake and he cackles from underneath it. 

Steve’s face breaks into a devestating smile, and he turns to look at you. “So that’s where you get your thinking-glasses thing from.”

That makes you smile.

You do have a pair of blue-light glasses you swear you can’t write any assignments without wearing them. It doesn’t make logical sense, but you feel more focused when you put them on — probably due more to the habitual act of putting them on, than any science behind it. 

You’re a lot like your dad. Maybe not in every good way, but the fact that Steve noticed warms something deep in your chest and makes you drop your gaze to the wood floor. 

It’s just because it feels nice to be known. He’s your best friend, of course he’s noticed that quirk of yours. 

While Mom’s back is turned, and Sam’s busying himself with Dad’s array of writing robes, Steve picks up a book on the edge of the desk and silently holds it up for you to see.

The title, Her Favorite Stallion is printed on the front in a bold font. The cover boasts a man with rippling abs, his shirt ripped open, a cowboy hat tipped low over his brow against a blazing sunset. 

You shoot Steve a look that says, I told you so, and he chuckles quietly before setting it back down where he found it. 

Just before your little tour turns to your room, Sam grabs Steve’s hand and tugs him toward the stairs, begging to show off the snowman he built earlier while waiting for you both to arrive.

Steve glances over his shoulder at you as he follows, leaning back slightly like he’s asking for permission, and it catches you off guard. 

You recover quickly, nodding and offering him a soft, girlfriend smile.

He blinks and holds your gaze a second too long before hurrying after Sam, who’s already halfway out the door. 

─── ✻ ───

“So, let me get this straight,” Mom says. “What you’re tellin’ me is that ya’ll’ve never screwed?”

“Oh my God, Momma.” Your hands fly to your face, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Please. All I asked for were two beds.”

“Well, honey, you’re in college. I know you have sex.” Just the way she says the word sex, like ‘sayxe’, in her Texas twang makes it sound downright filthy. “But you’re tellin’ me in the two months you’ve been datin’, he’s never made a move?”

Okay, yeah. Maybe two months was a little overkill.

You only called her a few days ago to tell her you and Steve were together now, and were going to attend Christmas as a couple. And when she asked how long it had been official, you panicked, desperate to receive her approval. Since no other relationship had lasted longer than a month at most, you doubled it. Just to be safe.

“Mom, stop,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. “I’m begging you.”

“Well, then, what is it? Oh!” she exclaims. Her blonde hair brushes your shoulder as she leans in, conspiritorially. “Did you two get in a fight?”

“Momma —” 

She blinks at you. “What’dya do?”

“Oh,” you scoff, “thanks for assuming I’m the problem!”

She waves a hand in the air dismissively, “That boy’s an angel. You, on the other hand…”

And there it is.

You’re not good enough for him, a voice in your head whispers, dark and thready.

“So, maybe this is just the push he needs!” She continues, completely unfazed by the glare you’re giving her through your lashes. “I mean, look around baby! It’s so romantic in here! Snow fallin’ outside, a cozy fireplace—”

“What exactly is the end goal here?” you blurt, glancing around the wood-paneled room, “Is Grannie’s baby-making quilt hiding in the closet, too? I mean, what the fuck, Mom?”

“Okay, okay!” she relents, giggling and raising both hands in front of her in surrender. “If it really makes you crazy, there’s always the cot in the basement.”

You shudder. “You mean that rat’s nest next to the dryer that sounds like an airplane taking off? How about the couch?”

She shoots you a look. “Honey, once all six-foot-two of him is laid out on that couch, it’s going to look like a loveseat. His hair and feet will stick off the ends of that thing!”

You bite your lip as you think. The couch is on the smaller side. “Maybe if we pushed one of dad’s recliners— wait, how do you know how tall Steve is?”

She shrugs coyly. “He told me. Well, technically he got all bashful about it and said ’six-foot, I think? Give or take,’ like that wasn’t the most obvious lie I’ve ever heard. So, I took that to mean what it actually means from a guy like him.” Her eyes snap to mine. “It means, six-two.”

“I can’t believe you asked him that,” you groan, hiding a smile beneath your hand as you picture the flustered look on Steve’s face while she sized him up. 

“Well,” she sighs dramatically, turning back to the room in front of you. “We could shove him into that twin-size bed with your brother. I’m sure Sam wouldn’t complain. Although, you know, he does still wet the bed occasionally. Have to change the sheets in the middle of the night, it’s a whole—”

“Okay, that’s not happening.” You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “He’ll sleep here.”

“Atta girl,” she chuckles, clearly amused at the pink in your cheeks. “I knew ya’ll weren’t fightin’. At least not for long. I saw the way he looked at you. Held your hand back there.”

Steve doesn’t look at you any certain way. Just…the way a friend would.

She’s going to misinterpret things because she wants this to work out so fucking badly. Dad’s corrupting her with all his romantic ideas. Or, it’s those dime-store westerns and their only one bed trope that really has her scheming right now.

Still, you try not to let her words go to your head. 

You sigh, but she just pats your back like you’re a football player leaving the bench, about to hop in the game at direction of your coach. 

“Everyone’s so excited to meet him, ya know,” she adds gently. 

You nod, staring down at your shoes.

Tomorrow, your entire extended family will be introduced to Steve Harrington as your boyfriend. Even as part of you dreads it, your stomach still does a defiant flip at the thought.

You mentally scold yourself, reminding your body that this is only temporary. You both only have one more semester left before you graduate, before real life pulls you in different directions. 

In six months, you won’t live within a hundred feet of your best friend anymore. 

The thought makes your chest ache, so you shove it aside. When you get back to school, you’ll tell your family you and Steve broke up because you’re better off as friends. Then, everything will go back to normal between you. 

Right?

“I’ll find Sam to help me set the table,” Mom says, startling you. You’d almost forgotten she was still here. “And I’ll ask Daddy to bring in your things.”

“Mom, you’ve got to stop calling Dad that.”

She looks up at you with wide brown eyes. “Why?”

“I know what books you read, you know why,” you remind, shooting her a look.“It’d be great if you stopped calling him that forever, but at least while Steve’s here.”

“Oh,” she smirks, “Will it make him uncomfortable? Is he a little prudish? Little vanilla?”

“Oh my God, Mom!” You rake a hand through your hair, and an unbelieving laugh escapes your chest. 

“Alright, alright!” She laughs brightly, blonde hair swinging over her shoulder as she opens the door to the upstairs landing. “Dinner’ll be ready in thirty!” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing down the stairs.  

You look around the room, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to to this. 

Share one bed with your best friend. 

Easy enough, right?

Fuck.

─── ✻ ───

“King Steve!” your dad, Ed, calls from the head of the table as you enter the dining room together. He stands to press a kiss to your temple, then shakes Steve’s hand firmly. “When I heard you two were finally together, I looked at Kristy and I said ‘about damn time!’”

He settles back into his seat again, grinning and looking between you two like you might spark his next bestseller.

“Yes sir, I said the same thing,” Steve jokes easily, taking the chair to your left. You catch the way his palms rub over his thighs beneath the table as he surveys the spread of food with a polite smile. 

Is he…nervous? He certainly didn’t act like this earlier in the car. 

The table looks beautiful this year. Every Christmas, your mom picks a new color theme for the centerpiece, and this year it’s apparently red and gold. Small, polished reindeer prance along the scarlet runner, and gold candelabras hold lit candles, casting an inviting glow over the glass dishes and silverware.

Dinner is several trays of grilled fish — whole fish — with a handful of hearty sides. There’s even another batch of cinnamon rolls on the table for dessert.

Mom really went all out for Steve. And why shouldn’t she? This is, after all, the first guy you’ve ever brought home. 

“Now, I’m glad you’re both here,” Dad says, interrupting your thoughts.

He plucks his reading glasses from their throne atop his dark head of curly hair, and places them on the very tip of his nose. He holds a notepad full of scribbled, handwritten notes at an arm’s distance away, the sleeve of his plaid writing robe nearly dipping into the bowl of mashed potatoes.

“You can give me a fresh perspective. What sounds better — ‘his member pulsed in her hand,’ or, ‘his pulsing member filled her hand?’”

Steve promptly chokes on his water, coughing and sputtering.

Your open palm meets your face. 

“Daddy!” Mom chides from the other side of the table, spooning more broccoli onto Sam’s place which he eyes with disgust. “No smut talk at the table.”

“Mom!” you exclaim, shooting her daggers over the fucking reindeer. 

Dad shrugs innocently, setting down his notebook and picking up his fork. “I’m just stuck on this scene, you know...”

Steve’s eyes meet yours and you laugh out loud at his expression. His brows are raised and drawn together, but there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s both frightened and amused in equal measure. 

Halfway through dinner, you start to feel antsy. Steve’s been quiet — unusually so. And despite yourself, your thought begin to spiral. 

You pick at your food, wondering if your family is scaring Steve off. Or, if it’s the whole fake dating thing. He chimes in here and there, clearing his plate with a charming smile.

But you still worry he’ll just look over at you and say, You’re crazy for suggesting this ridiculous plan, before bolting for the door.

Crystal winds around your ankles, caressing you with her fluffy tail, hoping for scraps from your plate. 

Your family hasn’t noticed your inner turmoil at all. They’re all passionately arguing over which Christmas move is the best ever. 

Sam votes for The Grinch. 

Mom insists on Die Hard.

And Dad chooses, of course, Love Actually. 

“I tried to warn you,” you whisper to Steve. “They’re crazy.”

You have to lean in to keep your words just for him, and your nose brushes the sliver of exposed skin between his neck and collar. He inhales sharply, a quiet hiss of breath, and your pulse stutters.  

Before Steve can reply, Mom looks over at the two of you and narrows her eyes into little mascara slits.

“What nefarious plans is she putting you up to, Steve?”

A disbelieving sound jolts from your chest, somewhere between a huff and a laugh. 

Steve carefully sets down his fork, wiping the edge of his mouth with a red napkin. “No nefariousness, happening here,” he says easily.

“No, she’s up to something.” Mom says, “I can always tell. You see, she was a bit of a wild child, back before you knew her.”

“Mom—”

“No, listen,” she laughs, undeterred. “Steve, we have to tell you the stories sometime. I mean, the things this girl got away with, it’s—”

“This girl, here?” Steve asks, unbelieving, gesturing towards you. 

You just want to crawl under the table and disappear through the floor. 

“Yes!” Mom exclaims, throwing her head back with a bright laugh that sends her gold hoops swaying. “Really, Steve, it’s a miracle you’re still here. We love our girl, but she put us through the wringer! Always sneaking out late to parties, getting into trouble. I mean! Did you know she actually dated a drug dealer? True story!”

Your gaze could burn a hole through the threads of your jeans as you sit, unmoving in the chair, your dinner completely forgotten. 

You can fucking feel Steve’s eyes on you, but you refuse to look at him.

She’s always been like this about you. It’s nothing traumatic, or even really intentionally cruel. But it still stings. 

“Well,” Steve starts, and you hold your breath. He could chime in, talk about exactly how much he hated all those guys too. What did he call them in the car earlier? A bunch of douchebags. 

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “She’s always seemed pretty great to me. Smart. Responsible, even.” His mouth curves slightly. “But now I’m kinda feeling like I missed out. I don’t hate a little trouble.”

Your breath catches at his reply and his eyes meet yours over his glass.

A soft, warm pressure lands on your knee, and you glance down to see his hand resting there on your kneecap. 

You swallow hard and jerk your gaze back to your plate.

Mom’s moved on, bantering lightly with Dad about the exact definition of a certain word, but you’re not listening. Every cell in your body is intensely aware of every millimeter of Steve’s skin against yours through the denim. 

It’s a soft touch, gentle, and grounding. And it feels like him. Like you have someone in your corner, but not just anyone. Steve. 

You excuse yourself early and spend far too long sitting against the wall in the bathroom, rubbing at your knee like you might erase the way his hand felt there, and arguing with yourself over what it means.

And what it doesn't.

─── ✻ ───

You’re just stepping out of the bathroom when Steve’s silhouette appears at the end of the hallway.

You don’t even think before lunging for him. Your palm hits his chest, warm even through his sweater, as you push him farther into the shadows. His eyes widen, and his hair — that perfect hair — bumps softly against the wall. 

“What the fuck was that, Harrington?” you hiss. 

“What!" he sputters, "What are you talking about, Ace?”

“The hand! The fucking hand-on-my-knee shit?”

He scoffs, chest caving as his exhale ghosts along your skin. “You’re my girlfriend, I —”

“Okay we’re alone,” you snap. “You can drop the act for a second. That touch, it wasn’t— visible! Nobody could even see it, so it didn’t need to happen!”

“What did you think this was going to look like?” His eyes flash in the dim light, and curl of hair slips over his brow as he leans down and lowers his voice even more. “Even if we weren’t doing this,” he gestures with one finger between the two of you. “I’d still have your back. You know that.”

You do? You do. It’s Steve. He’s always had your back. But, right now, you feel flayed open in front of him. Gut and displayed, bones and all, just like that fish on the table.

“What are you scared of?” He asks quietly. 

You open your mouth to answer, but no words come out. His heartbeat pulses beneath your hand, warmth spreading through you, and you can’t seem to pull away.

He blinks down at you and leans in.

Your eyes drop to his lips. 

“Harry?”

Sam’s voice calls from the dining room. 

You spring apart.

Steve rakes a hand through his hair, and you stare at each other for a single heartbeat before both of you look away. 

He turns quickly and disappears down the hall towards the kitchen.

Were you…were you about to kiss him?

You can hardly think about it without your stomach flipping. Just because he’s your best friend, doesn’t mean you haven’t noticed how attractive he is. You’ve noticed, over the years. Of course you have. How could you not? 

The way his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip when he slides his headphones on in the radio station, waiting for the break to cue the next song.

The way he plants his hands on his hips and tips his head down when he listens to you, like he’s making sure to catch every word.

How his brows draw together slightly and his eyes roam your face when you’re upset, like he’s desperate to fix it. 

But he’s your best friend.

And getting involved with him would make things insurmountably more complicated. 

You can’t do that. The risk of losing him is too much. 

Still, it takes you far longer than you hoped to steady your breathing before heading back into the fray. 

─── ✻ ───

You’ve always hated how quiet the cottage is.

It’s not like your home back in the suburbs, or your college dorm room. There’s no car horns. No drunk students stumbling home late. No alarms, or sirens, or footsteps. 

One Christmas a few years back, you even shoved your bed against the wall that shared a side with The Lair, just so you could hear your dad’s frantic typing and half-muttered dialogue clips as he talked himself through a scene he was writing. It calmed you to hear his voice filling the empty space.

But even the Lair is silent tonight. There’s not even any wind whistling through the trees. Just the silent, steady fall of fresh snow drifting past your window pane. 

But even with the deadly silent, your room’s never been louder. 

You hear every breath that leaves Steve’s chest from his place on the floor next to the bed. Every grunt as he tries to get comfortable. You set him up as well as you could with a few decent blankets and a pillow. At least he’s not sleeping with a rat or a bed wetter.

Or, of course, sleeping with you. 

That would be the worst idea in the entire world. 

You shiver under your blankets. Mom traded out your worn quilts for a stupid down comforter that makes a rustling sound every time you shift in bed, no doubt alerting Steve to each and every twitch you make. 

“This isn’t working.”

Steve’s voice cuts hrough the stillness, and you freeze. 

“What?” You whisper. The word sounds too loud in the dark, and you wince. You were right. He does want to leave.

“This,” he says, and you hear his palm hit his chest, like he just gestured vaguely between you before letting his hand fall back down. 

You jolt upright and peer over the edge of the bed at the dark shape of him stretched out on the floor beneath his pile of blankets. 

“Have something to say, Harrington?” You mutter. “Just say it.” 

“So defensive,” he huffs.

You watch warily as he shifts into a seated position, bracing his palms on the ground behind him. In the low light of your window, you can just make out the outline of his hair, and the line of his shoulders beneath the thin T-shirt, muscles flexing as he moves. 

It would be much more convenient for you if he weren’t so goddamn attractive. 

“Okay, you know what? Fine.” he grunts, “You’re a horrible actress. You’re going to get us caught by day three. You flinch whenever I reach for your hand.” He pauses for a second, and you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat like you can. “This only works if you commit to it, too.”

“Fuck you, Harrington!” you snort. “I’m just—getting used to the whole idea. That’s all.”

“…such a pain in my ass.” He mutters, rubbing a hand over the back of his opposite shoulder like ehe’s working out the tension there. “All I did was put my hand on your knee under the table, and I practically got mauled in the hallway for it.”

He turns his head, and your eyes meet in the dim light. “Just admit it, Ace. You’re freaked the fuck out.”

“No, I’m not, Steve.” You rush to reassure him, even as you don’t know why. You just can’t let him think you don’t want to do this. Because you do. Even if you shouldn’t want it so badly, you do anyway. “It’s not you. It’s just…” you trail off, eyes falling back down to your lap, unsure of how to explain this feeling. 

The only sound in the room is the comforter whispering as you trace absentminded patterns into it with your fingernail.

You’ve never been protected like that before. Not really. No boyfriend ever checked in with you before leaving for awhile. None of them shook your dad’s hand or held your hand in front of your mom like it meant something. You’ve never had someone put a steady, honest hand on your leg like they knew you. He knows you. 

It’s a lot to process. And to make matters worse, you can’t stop replaying any of those moments in your head. It’s like a brutal form of self-torture. But, he wouldn’t understand that, because he doesn’t think of you like that.

Sure, you kissed once. So, there’s mutual attraction there. But, he’s never pursued you.

Not like you’ve really given him a chance to. But, still…

“I get it, you know,” Steve says softly. “You’ve only dated douchebags, so you expect douchebag behavior.” 

Defensiveness rushes through you, and you sit up straighter, eyes snapping to his again. “Listen, I told you earlier — I didn’t date them because they were douchebags!”

“Okay, okay, but—” he lifts a placating hand. “What I mean is…you don’t know what it’s like to date a non-douche. That’s why you fall into that pattern, you go with what’s familiar. Comfortable.”

You flop back onto the mattress, turning your eyes to the window again.

Here we go, therapist Harrington. Or, maybe babysitter. Babysitter Steve is better. But you can’t deny the way his words land, deep beneath your ribs.

“What are you suggesting, Harrington?”

You glance back just in time to see him shrug, shoulders lifting almost sheepishly up to his ears.

“Just commit to the bit,” he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “It’s not the real deal, so you don’t have to worry about screwing it up. You don’t really know what it’s like for a guy to treat you right. Just— let me show you okay?” he hesitates, then exhales. “Just for the next five days.”

He stares down at the ground like he’s processing what he just said before he rakes a hand through his hair and stretches back down onto the ground. You feel a flicker of guilt at the fact you’re making him sleep there. But, irritation rises quickly as his words fully sink in.

“Okay, King Steve,” you scoff into the darkness. “You are aware of how conceited you sound right now, right? Why do you even care?” 

Even with all your defensiveness, the words come out small and fragile. You mentally curse yourself for it. Of course, he cares — he’s your best friend.

Still, there’s something about the careful cadence in his voice, the breathy pauses, the way he’s choosing every word like it matters. Like he’s afraid of you bolting out that door, too. 

He’s quiet for so long you almost wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But, when he speaks again, his voice is clear and steady. 

“Your Mom shouldn’t have said those things. Tonight, at dinner.”

“Yeah, well,” you sigh, suddenly exhausted. “That’s just her.”

“But…” he says hesitantly, “you know you’re...good...right?”

Fuck, his voice is so soft. 

If you looked over the bed right now, you know what you’d see.

That messy hair curling over his eyes. His long fingers rubbing absently over his mouth, like he does when he’s thinking. So, you keep your eyes on the window instead, watching the fat snowflakes drift from the stars through the gap in your sheer curtains. 

You try to scoff at his sweet statement, but you’re too tired, so it just comes out sounding like a sigh.

“Go to sleep, Harrington.”

“No,” he huffs, “I’m serious.” 

“You’re my best friend, you kind of have to say that,” you joke, even as your knee still burns with the memory of his hand there. You close your eyes tight.

“No, Ace,” he argues quietly, “I’m saying it because I know you.”

He does know you. Probably better than anyone. 

“So…” he adds after a beat, “you gonna be my fake girlfriend for real tomorrow?” 

Oh, God. 

You’re not strong enough for this. You thought you were, but you’re not. Because all you can picture is another day — another four days— of more hands on your knee. Of more almost-kisses in the hallway. More defenses to protect your heart. More walls up between you and your best friend. 

But there must be something wrong with you. Because even though you know how this story ends — even though you can see the crash-and-burn-third act from a mile away — you want it anyway. 

And beneath it all, there’s the curiosity. Sharp and undeniable, quietly blooming from its hibernation since the first and last time your lips met his. You can’t deny it anymore. You’re desperately curious to know what kind of boyfriend Steve Harrington would be. And he’s offering you the chance to find out. 

Not for real, but not real is real enough for you. 

You’re quiet for a long time. Long enough for the tension in the room to soften around the edges, for the sting of arguing with him to fade into something aching and desperate. 

“Yes,” you whisper, into the darkness.

Steve doesn’t reply. You’re not even sure he heard you or not, or if he’s already asleep. 

But you know one thing for certain. 

You have to lock away your heart and throw away the key. Because if you don’t, you’re going to fall for him. 

And everyone never fails to remind you of how good you are at ruining good things.

____